


Parkour

by letosatie



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Charles is a free runner, Erik needs to get laid, Fluff and Crack, Liberties taken with everyone's job descriptions, M/M, Mild S&M, Porn With Plot, Spoilers for Gatsby and Fiesta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2017-12-26 17:05:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letosatie/pseuds/letosatie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is running.  He is running late; he is running across a rooftop.  Asphalt crunches under his trainers.  He picks a take off point and leaps.  There is a moment halfway between buildings and he could actually be flying, not Charles Xavier anymore but some comic book superhero.  </p><p> </p><p>Charles loves parkour; he is a free runner.  Erik is an uptight city planner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Charles finds some arm candy.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by lost-in-a-paradox.
> 
> Pretty much what happens when my internet disappears for a month.

Charles is running. He is running late; he is running across a rooftop. Asphalt crunches under his trainers. He picks a take off point and leaps. There is a moment halfway between buildings and he could actually be flying, not Charles Xavier anymore but some comic book superhero. Then he has to get his head re-engaged to land right; he takes the weight on his feet but chooses split second to roll giving the momentum somewhere to go. From this roof, he jumps down on to a fire escape and, usually, there is an internal stairwell he uses, accessible by window. Today the window is closed and locked.

Fuck. If he wasn’t late, this would be an amusing challenge. He decides to go up, climbing the outside frame of the escape stairs. The roof access door is propped open. Charles runs indoors and is relieved to see he can slide the banisters to keep up speed. Three levels down, he spies an open external window and checks it. He can get back on his usual route by getting on to a terrace garden on the next building, then climbing to the roof, but that puts him on private property and he always keeps off other people’s stuff. 

He is very late. Moira will ruin him. 

He crouches, foot on the window frame, and pushes off. There is plenty of momentum and he touches a trainer to the brick balustrade to slow the landing. A little skid, but a safe stop. He goes to a drain pipe and starts to climb.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

Charles, already at the roofline, looks down on a supremely handsome and irate man. “Apologies, my friend, my normal way was blocked... running late. Thank you... life saver.” He winks, gains the roof, propels into a run and, showing off, he somersaults off an air duct, even though it’s not justifiable. After all, the unbelievably good looking man can’t actually still be watching.

 

Charles feels amazing, like Superman, even though he isn’t free running. He is drunk, however, drunkity fucky drunk drunk. ‘God, I’m awesome,’ he thinks, ‘so awesome, Moira does not get it, the sour cow. Umm, and the bartender is awesome and that guy over there, he is awesome. I wish the handsome guy from the terrace was here, but I can’t make that leap drunk. Fucking drunk, I shouldn’t be drunk, I should be fucking that handsome guy...’ at which point, Raven says, blearily, “What handsome guy?”

Charles thinks, ‘Fuck, did I say that out loud?’ and Raven says, “Yes, all of it. What handsome guy?” So, Charles adopts a soppy face, licks his bottom lip and describes the terrace man in slurry detail.

“Oh,” says Raven, “He does sound delicious. How do we find him again?”

“He might not even be gay,” says Charles, morosely, “I couldn’t be sure.”

“Yay,” Raven cheers, unhelpfully.

“Keep off my handsome guy.” Charles pushes Raven; she clings to the bar to stay on her stool.

“Drunk people,” says the formally awesome bartender, “time to go home.”

Charles makes it as far as Raven’s couch before sleep and dreams of terrace sex overpower his consciousness.

 

Next morning, Charles and a vengeful hangover join forces to glower at the undergraduates. He hangs his head over his coffee and laments the lack of terrace inhabitants in his life. He makes it to midway through the day, then dons his trainers and meets up with some other parkour artists for a ground level run. Charles runs with Alex, Janos and Remy at least four times a week. Alex is athletic, can do graceful somersaults, Remy is a flamboyant risk taker, often plotting their rooftop missions, as he doesn’t care about breaking laws in the discovery of a new route, and Janos, frankly, is just nice to look at out of the corner of Charles‘ eye as he runs.

The run blows the fog off. Charles drops into the council building afterwards to check on consent for a Xavier Trust project he is heading, but, of course, Emma is in a meeting and Charles has to talk to that butt-licker, Levene. He pushes the down button at the lift and waits, stretching a tricep. Just before the elevator seals for the descent, a voice calls out to hold the lift, Charles jabs the open door button and the handsome man from the terrace slips in.

“Oh, hi!” exclaims Charles, with a surge of excitement.

“You,” growls the man.

“Hi,” Charles says again, smiling and undeterred, “I’m Charles and I’m so sorry about the other morning, treading on your deck like that. I was running extremely late and it’s my first semester and some people have a problem with my being younger than they are. Ground floor?”

The man nods. 

“Perhaps I can make it up to you,” Charles continues, hopefully, taking one of the man’s wrists, “What’s your name?”

“Erik. Lehnsherr.”

“Erik, nice to meet you.” Erik is even more gorgeous up close and without anger twisting and reddening his features, although he still looks secret service stern. Charles lets his hand skim down to grip the heel of Erik’s hand, encouraged because he hasn’t been told not to.

Erik says pompously, “It’s nice to meet you keeping to the law.” Charles has to bite his lip to stem laughter. 

“Yes, I have no way of proving to you that it was an isolated incident, which it was. Now, seriously, how can I stop you looking so aggrieved? Can I take you out for a coffee, a drink...” 

“Oh God, are you old enough to drink? You said first semester!”

“Yes, I’m old enough. Have been for years! Two years counts as years. And longer in England. Seasoned over there. I meant first semester here.”

Erik gets a bit pink. He looks like the devil on his shoulder just kicked the angel advocate in the nuts. “Lunch?” he suggests.

“I would be honored and delighted,” declares Charles, “but I have to give a lecture this afternoon.” Erik looks quite shocked. Charles adds, “Yes, and, obviously, get changed first. Could I please take you out another time?”

The lift slows, Erik pulls his hand away but says, “Yes.” 

Charles beams, promises to call and runs out of the elevator. He delivers his lecture with such elation that five students doodle their names with Xavier on their notes, two determine to change their major, a dozen make up an excuse to attend his open office time and one has to remain seated at the end of it to avoid embarrassment.

It’s Wednesday, so Charles goes to the kickboxing studio to train. One of the lads he was running with in Oxford was doing it, and it’s been a fantastic new challenge. Tonight, though, he keeps thinking about Erik’s erratic pulse, how he is just the right height to eat along Erik’s jaw and... Ow, that kick to the ribs hurt like fuck.

A few new bruises later, Charles gives in to his impulse and heads reverse direction across the rooftops to the terrace. He jumps down. The apartment is lit up with Erik sitting at a small table spread with papers. He looks up immediately when Charles lands, his face shows a conflict of relief and annoyance. Charles knocks on the french door, which Erik unlocks and swings open, then Charles leans in, hesitates a second, eyes flicking up to Erik’s to check, before connecting their mouths; all of Charles’ awareness and intent pooling in the one linked spot. It’s not enough, suddenly, and Charles tries to gather in more of Erik, grabbing waist then the back of the thigh, until he is pressing as close as he can without walking right through the distracting man. 

“Shit,” he confesses, “I meant to say, Hi! and can I kiss you? and sorry about the terrace again.”

Erik concedes awkwardly, “Be a bit weird to say no now.” He still has one hand in Charles’ hair and the other on his ass; he releases him, lowering his eyes.

Charles laughs, “I suppose so.” 

“Do you want to come in for a drink?”

“Lovely. Actually, though, I’d love some tea, if you have it.”

“I probably don’t except green, that ok?” Charles nods and Erik leads him inside, asking, “Were you born in England?”

“No, but mum was and I read Genetics at Oxford.” 

“You said you were lecturing this afternoon?”

“Yes, I teach now. Adjunct, but still a professor. Bit of a controversial appointment because I’m quite young but, apparently, I can teach, if the first test results are an indicator.”

Charles doesn’t miss the flash of discomfit in Erik’s hastily averted eyes. Bloody egos; it pisses Charles off. It’s not his fault he’s awesome at everything. 

He changes the subject, “Where shall I take you on our date? Dinner, then somewhere with music? What do you like?”

“Classical and jazz. Um, and I’m kosher and a pescatarian.”

“Wow.”

Erik shrugs, not about to apologize.

Charles says abruptly, “Tell me if this is a bad idea but... I’ve a charity dinner, concert tomorrow night. Some great piano pieces; Chopin, Rachmaninoff, I think one of the Gnossienne and Rhapsody in Blue, can’t remember... I’d love it if you came with me. Is that selfish? You’ll hear more than you ever wanted to about... well, why start now... on the plus side: dinner, good music and me being charming. It won’t even count as our date, I’ll still take you to the Opera, Cosi fan tutte currently running.”

“You want me to come?”

“Yes, I’ll have a much better night if you’re there.”

“Ok, then. What time?”

“8, the car will be here at 7:15.”

Erik hands Charles his tea, “Would you like to sit outside?”

“If it’s not too awful of me, can we pick out your suit and tie for tomorrow? It would be great if we didn’t entirely clash.”

“Oh,” from Erik, “I guess.”

Charles whirls around Erik and his bedroom. There isn’t a large selection but Charles would have made short work of it anyway. “You only have one waistcoat,” he comments while hanging a shirt, tie and the one waistcoat on the same hanger as the suit he’s selected, “You need more.”

“Why?”

“Hmm, with your torso, dressed in waistcoats, you could rule the world.”

Erik chuckles, “What if i don’t want to rule?”

“Then you can be my arm candy while I take over this dust speck, so you’ll need them regardless.”

Erik is making his way out to the terrace, pausing to refill his glass en route, “Well, maybe I want to rule. I do want everyone to follow the rules I set.”

“That’s just government and enforcement and a normal function of human being. It’s not leading. You can be Erik the Enforcer.”

“You’re very odd.”

“You have no idea,” Charles smiles, unconcerned, with fresh fantasies of Erik and lycra, leaping around rooftops next to him.

Erik asks, “Are you sure about the Opera? It’s not for everyone.”

Charles shrugs, “If the spectacle of watching you watching becomes boring, I’ll haul you into the back of the box and we can make out like teenagers.”

“Ok... wait. How are we in a box?”

“My sister, Raven, is involved in theatre, she’s quite a big deal. Or, if she can’t sort us, we can use my families one.” Erik does not look like that explains anything. “Xavier, my name’s Charles Xavier.”

“Uuh, we really need to talk about why you were on this terrace.”

“Sorry, I normally don’t use anything that isn’t public domain. Moira is really stressing me out... Oh, you mean, why am I running around on the roof instead of being driven around in a large, shiny car? You should come free running with me so you understand. It feels incredible.”

“You do seem to be good at it.”

“Being good at something is no reason to do it. It makes you happy or it makes a real difference to someone... those are reasons.” Charles leans his forearms on the balustrade, looks down to the alleyway.

“Huh. Well, we’ll see. I don’t think I’d enjoy it.” Erik is too upright to lean, but he is standing very close, “Don’t you worry about annoying people?”

“No. I don’t damage anything or anyone. I’m making art from landscape that is there for everyone to enjoy.”

“I guess I can see that. Maybe you could... do something I like in exchange?”

“Like what?” Charles asks, sipping tea.

“I fence, twice a week. And in the weekends, I go to the archery club and I play chess in the park.”

Charles gets a sinking feeling, then thinks, ‘Fuck it, I’ll go down with the ship.‘ He says, “To be fair, Erik, I should mention, I’m really good at all those things you just said and I like them all so it’s not exactly an even exchange.”

“You already fence...?”

“Not anymore.”

“And play chess?”

“I’ll play you but I don’t compete anymore.”

“You used to compete...”

Erik is getting a look on his face that Charles does not want to see; a familiar look, of disappointment and frustration, the wasted potential look. Before he becomes a defensive teenager out of habit, he carries out an offensive instead, a tongue on tonsil assault, very successfully, if the sounds Erik makes are a decent measure. The more Erik responds, the more Charles wants to please him. 

“We can fence at home; I don’t want to go to your club,” he compromises, before placing their cup and glass down and pulling Erik on to a bench seat to renew his onslaught.

Eventually, Charles reluctantly says, “I had better go, I’m starving.”

“God, haven’t you eaten?” Erik looks dismally at his paperwork, “I have all that to do tonight, so I guess...”

“Oh, I didn’t even ask! What do you do?”

“I’m a city planner.”

“You what, you...” Charles shouts with laughter, “You’re responsible for my playground; kind of plan my running.”

Erik looks dubious, says “Yes, Charles, my life’s work, just for you.” Then he grabs his jacket and keys, “I’ll walk you out. I want to get some tea for next time you drop in. Besides, I’d like to know you can find my apartment via the front door.”

 

It’s exactly 7:15 on Thursday evening and Charles is knocking on Erik’s door, the front door. Erik throws it open and stops still. Charles smiles, aware this is the first time Erik has seen him in anything but trainers and track pants, aware that he wears this suit like second skin after a lifetime in them. There is something delicious about making Erik’s mouth hang open like that. He puts his palm on Erik’s super smooth jaw and steps forward for a molasses moving kiss.

“Ready?” 

“Almost. A few more of those?” says Erik, hopefully, eyes reluctantly reopening.

“Don’t mess me up. I have to be charming tonight. Later though, after my speech.”

“You’re giving a speech?”

“Umm yes,” says Charles, leading Erik down stairs, “I won’t bore you with it now though, you’ll be bored enough tonight, but basically we are raising funding for genetic research regarding a veritable basketful of hereditary diseases. It’s not my area of research, but, between my upbringing and genetic education, I am perfectly placed to persuade donors to... well, donate.”

“Also, you’re unfairly good looking.”

“I am not!” Charles opens the car door for Erik. “There’s nothing unfair about it. I deserve every speck of my good looks, thanks.”

Erik chuckles as Charles follows him into the car, “And every speck of your genius and every speck of your trust fund?”

“Absolutely. As you get to know me, you’ll realize I’ve actually been robbed and should be even smarter and even sexier, given how very nice I am.”

“I met you trespassing on my terrace,” Erik points out.

“And I was very polite about it and looked fantastic.”

Erik laughs and Charles takes his wrist, rubs his thumb along the inside of it, “I am sorry about that, Erik.”

“Don’t worry about it. In fact, you can use my terrace whenever you like. Just you though, as you’re so very nice.”

Charles asks Erik about his work day and then tells a tale of Moira the scary TA, occupying the rest of the journey.

As they enter the hotel foyer, Charles takes Erik’s hand and suggests, “Let’s have a code. If I’m talking too much science, or you feel the need to drag me into a corner and ravish me, tap the morse code SOS on the back of my hand, agreed?”

“I’ll be fine, Charles,” Erik rolls his eyes.

“Uh, I’m pretty sure you’ll, at least, have to invoke it to drag me into a corner. I believe I’m unfairly good looking tonight.”

“Last compliment ever.”

“Too late. You already said I was very nice after that.”

Erik just growls a bit in response.

They are swooped on by an elderly man who has Cupie doll triangles of white hair sticking out over his ears. Erik is reserved but polite during the period of greetings and introductions, perfect elegance in counterbalance to Charles’ jovial and generous banter.

Erik does use the code once when Charles’ second cousin says, “And what did poor Sharon say when she found out you’re seeing a civil servant?”

Charles snaps, “Excuse me,” and propels Erik to a vaguely private spot. He is holding Erik by the shoulders, “Are you alright? I’m sorry about Caroline. It had to be my family too.”

“I’m fine. I am a civil servant. I just got you out of there because tonight’s goal is being charming and persuasive and making money, not calling that woman a insularen, ininzucht idiot.”

Charles takes a moment to adjust to the novel experience of being supported in his objectives.

“You speak German. Yes, I was about to call her almost exactly that: inbred and insular, only I’d have added new money just to really tick her off.”

“Sprichst du Deutsch?”

“Ein bisschen,” Charles smoothes the arms of Erik’s jacket, “Erik, thank you.”

“Bitte shoen. Let’s go be Prince Charming and his civil servant.”

“I’ll buy you glass slippers and a tiara and an orange car.”

“I’m not really that kind of gay man.”

“You’d prefer sequins and fishnets?”

They take their seats. When the first course is brought out, Erik’s plate is wholly different from the rest of the table’s. 

“You remembered. Danke Charles.” Erik’s expression is soft and unexpected; it lights in Charles a matching pride. It infuses his mood, strengthens his fascination with watching Erik listen to the music and it gives weight to the words of his speech. 

While highlighting the impact of Huntington’s, Charles gauges his audience and realizes they are completely with him; as if he could claim something outrageous and still be applauded. He emits a full wattage smile and notes several intakes of breath. Awesome. 

Yet, none of it is as intoxicating as returning to the table and knowing, from the way Erik takes his hand and stares at him unspeaking, that he has impressed the handsome man from the terrace.

During the car ride home, Erik slinks down against Charles’ shoulder; Charles kisses the top of his head. 

“We raised a bloody good amount. I feel like singing We Are the Champions.” 

“You were amazing. You’re less than half the age of that room of people and they loved you.”

“Prfft. They didn’t love me. They just would have considered anything I suggested. Kidding!” 

He watches the buildings reflect in the window for a few seconds. “Power is not force, or the act of persuasiveness, it is simple human connection; the greater the scope of connectedness, the greater the power. In other words, most of the work was done when you and I shook all those people’s hands at the beginning of the evening, and they said to themselves, ‘Xavier must know something if he can get a handsome chap like that to follow him around.’”

“Oh my God, Charles, you really did make me your arm candy!”

“But did you have an alright time, weren’t too numb with boredom?”

“I had a really great night,” says Erik, 

“Sooo, I get to take you out again?” asks Charles, suddenly hesitant and young.

“Or... I can take you out?” suggests Erik.

“We can take turns,” Charles provides, not sure they are still talking about dating. The car pulls up to the curb and Charles flashes the driver a five minute request.

“Very chivalrous, Charles,” says Erik, as they reach his floor, “walking me to the door.”

“Fuck no. I just wanted to do this without Campbell gawking,” and he pushes Erik up against the nearest wall, gets his hands under Erik’s jacket running his hands down granite abs to the waistband which he yanks until their thighs and hips are flattened together.

Erik growls, bending his head, and Charles, inflamed by the night’s success, nips, laps and smears kisses onto Erik’s mouth, his jaw, his collarbone. His hands are everywhere, melting Erik into a puddle of groaning and pleading. When Charles catches himself about to rip clothing, he steps back and says, panting, “You... are...are... Fuck, I’m hideously brainy... and I can’t think of a single word that’s good enough to describe you.” 

He kisses Erik, long and still, says, “Thank you for tonight.”

He can see Erik holding words back, and he knows what they are because he’s trying not to say the same thing. Erik finally settles on, “See you tomorrow.”

That promised, they walk away from each other.


	2. Erik breaks his routine and his dry spell.

Erik is having a great day. Charles knocked on his door this morning holding breakfast supplies. Erik eats cereal, fruit and juice for breakfast but, this morning, everything was flavored with tea and toast because Charles regularly flew at Erik for kisses, and Erik is still operating within the bubble of adoration that single hour with Charles created.

He is sure everything his workmates say to him is a compliment today, that their voices are all deep and British and they’ve been saying things like ‘I love tall men’, ‘You taste amazing’ and ‘Your eyes so gorgeous, would you like me to tell you which gene makes them that crazy color?’. Erik has anticipatory rods of edgy, clenching want rock through his torso, when ever the image of Charles’ ass in blue dress pants sneaks into his brain. So, often, or maybe, constantly is more accurate. 

“Lehnsherr, are you alright? Are you with us?”

Oh God, has he been staring at his team leader? How long has she been trying to get his attention? He decides to take a leaf from the Book of Being Forthright, by Charles Xavier.

“Sorry Emma, sorry everyone. I’ll get my head in the game as of now. It’s just... I met someone.” 

There is a satisfying collective gasp. Emma looks shocked, which for her means both eyebrows are lifted. Then a cacophony of shit giving commences.

“Been hanging out in the morgue again, Erik?”

“Pinch me, I thought I heard Erik mention a personal life.”

“So what, you schedule him in for Tuesdays and Thursday, sandwiched in between lining up your pencils and de-linting your turtlenecks?”

“You say met; you mean booked right?”

“Oh God, imagine the pillow talk! Nutritional merits of bottled water anyone?”

“Alright people, very witty,” Emma is back to business, “Erik, we’ll overlook the train wreck you were this morning if you bring him to drinks tonight.”

That earns Emma a round of applause and Erik a round of slaps on the back. Cheeks blazing, he texts Charles, 'Is it too soon? Work drinks tonight. They want to meet you.' and gets back, 'Can I bring my sister? She wants to meet you. I wanted to see you tonight. Perfect.' Erik switches from nauseated to excited smoothly, like a train on tracks.

He somehow gets through the afternoon.

Erik’s team go straight to the bar when the office closes. Apparently, they habitually order bar snacks later in the evening. Erik stops for a salad on the way; there is no need to go barbaric just because he’s had a slip into spontaneity. He should get Charles a T shirt that labels him a dangerous slip into spontaneity. He suspects Charles would wear it proudly.

By the time he gets to the bar, Charles is on top of it, dancing with Azazel and a pretty blonde girl. Erik watches the show for a while. There is something bewitching about Charles in motion. He is still in his professor clothes: the blue pants, which haunted Erik’s thoughts all day, and a teal sweater vest. How is he making a sweater vest look like porn? Then Azazel smacks Charles on the ass and Erik stalks forward, smile stretching from fond to predatory. Charles waves both arms in the air when he spots Erik, yelling, “Hey Erik, over here,” as if every eye in the bar wasn’t already focussed leerily on him, as if Erik couldn’t know exactly where he was in a crowded room based on a magnetic attraction alone.

Charles manages to gracefully, and Erik will never understand the physics of this, fall off the bar and drape himself around Erik, like he was a wet towel someone threw. Erik had held some intention of being reserved in public, keeping some dignity in front of his workmates but, as soon as he smells Charles and takes the weight of him in his arms, he forgets that goal. He loses awareness of the bar around him, only knowing he has Charles‘ eager lips moving achingly sweetly against his and he is holding a man he never wants to let go.

“Hi,” says Charles, staring at Erik with an expression of wonder, and Erik manages to not look over his own shoulder and check what awe inspiring thing Charles must actually be looking at.

“Hi,” says Erik.

“Meet my sister, Raven.” 

The lovely blonde squeezes Erik’s shoulder, “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Me too.”

“I’m going to get you a drink,” says Charles, “What do you feel like?”

“Bubbles,” demands Raven.

“That’s fine,” says Erik.

“You can have whatever you want,” Charles reiterates.

“Can I?” inquires Erik, eyeing Charles’ belt buckle.

Charles laughs, delighted, and flags down the bartender.

“Have you met all of my work team?” Erik asks Raven and Charles.

“Yes, I have worked with Azazel for fundraisers, that toad Levine regarding Westchester and Emma on community or trust projects. Charles has too, but not so much because of being overseas for so long,” Raven smiles at him, “so yeah, Charles has insinuated himself in that part of your life already.”

Erik quickly realizes what an accurate statement that is. His team do genuinely seem glad Erik broke his pattern and joined them, but they adore Charles. Erik’s evening is peppered with “Charles, let’s do shots!” ”Charles, I love this song, let’s dance.” “I can’t believe you like Nightvale too, Charles, did you get last night’s cast?” “Your shirt is lovely, Charles, where did you get it?” this last accompanied by touching, which would be palatable but each call rips Charles’ hand from Erik’s, or his arm from Erik’s waist or his blue eyes from Austen eye sex with Erik.

Emma sinks down next to him, clinks her glass on his, “Charles Fucking Xavier, Erik. We’ve known you five years. It’s as shocking as you suddenly eating a whole pig. No, wait, it’s like you eating a unicorn garnished with bacon and making us watch.”

Erik would have tried for a cutting comeback, but is waylaid by a vivid image of his mouth on Charles while everyone looks on, and has to physically shake his head to dispel it. He agrees, “It is sort of out of character...”

Emma raises her eyebrow, “It’s like you’ve been body snatched, but sugar, I’m not saying that’s an entirely bad thing. It’s good to try new things.”

Raven joins him and tops up his glass. She is openly interrogating Erik but with no aggression, just a curious enthusiasm very like Charles. 

“I love the theatre, how a bare stage is transformed into another world, actors into characters, all that,” she is saying, then her dimpled smile turns sulky, “Charles is fucking amazing on stage, it’s beautiful to watch. It does my head in; I want to see him do it all the time.” She drains her glass and advises, “That’ll be you, if you love fencing, once you’ve seen him, it will gut you that he’s not competing.”

“Is that why the parkour? It’s not a competitive activity?”

“Huh,” Raven considers. She looks at Erik admiringly, “Maybe. There was just a demo style competition, no judging, no places, but no one Charles runs with would make him compete. So maybe, partly. Our lives were so planned out when we were little, but free running is a decision, made by Charles, and very in the moment.”

“I can see that.” He seeks Charles out in the crowd. He is talking to a large, handsome bear, but he still has his eye in Erik’s direction and smiles one sided when Erik spots him. Erik smiles back, it’s tiny but enough that Charles increases his and excuses himself. 

When he gets to Erik, he whispers, “I want to go now, but I want to be where you are. Do you want to come to my place? We could play chess or something?”

“Yes,” says Erik, and gives one of his rare, full smiles. 

They hear Levene say, “Did you see that? There’s something wrong with Erik’s face. I can see his teeth and he isn’t growling.” 

“Give it a rest, Levene. My face would look like that if I was going home with Xavier.” At which point, Erik does growl.

They say goodbye, making arrangements with Raven for brunch on Sunday, and walk for a block before they find a cab.

“I have to eat,” declares Charles in the taxi, “Are you hungry?” 

“I could eat.”

“I haven’t had a chance to shop or learn how to cook, you know, appropriate Erik type food, but I can put together sandwiches I think.”

“It’s insane that you would want to learn to cook to accommodate me.”

“No, it’s not. How else would we eat together?” Charles hesitates; Erik doesn’t like the look on him. Charles says resigned, “You intend to spray and walk away.”

“No!” Erik places a hand on his arm, “It’s just... unusual to be looked after. Ugh, ok, heavy conversation... My parents both were killed in a car accident when I was fourteen. There was no family left to take me so I was fostered out, but there wasn’t much... caregiving involved. Learnt to take care of myself, been doing it pretty well since.”

“Erik,” says Charles, sadly. He has almost crawled into Erik’s lap. “What about lovers, partners and so on. Surely they’d have taken care of you.”

“Not many and not for ages,” Erik says gruffly. Charles is eating along his jaw; he’s left the past and is already foreshadowing.

Erik sneaks a quick look at the driver and then a quick kiss.

“I know,” proposes Charles, “we can fence tonight! Awesome. Do you want to?”

Discussing it takes them to Charles’ front door. 

“Not a fan of furniture or color, then,” Erik comments, when Charles leads him into his apartment.

Charles elbows him, then begins unloading sandwich fillings from the fridge, “It’s deliberately the opposite of my house, which is old, dark and packed with generations of antiques.”

“Your house?” Erik knows only two people that own a house and they both have kids. “I don’t know anyone who owns a house they don’t live in.”

“You do now,” Charles is matter of fact, “I own lots of buildings I don’t live in.”

Erik blinks and resets, then makes up the sandwiches while Charles searches for his fencing equipment. Charles is excited by the time he brings in the gear and eats his sandwich. He hands whites to Erik to try on while he pushes the one sofa to the wall. He’s grinning broadly by the time he faces off against Erik across the stretch of space in the bare living area.

“Ready?” he asks Erik, taking position. “En garde.”

It’s all Erik can do to keep up, he really never once gets to take the attack, but it is not being outclassed that is stunning. It is the verve with which Charles does everything and the picture of grace he is. Each move is scorpion fast, striking one poster perfect position after another, shifting fluidly in between. 

Mainly though, it is how much fun he is having. He doesn’t just grunt and curse, he laughs and cheers, whether he scores a valid touch or Erik does. He’s smiling like he saw Santa, like a tablecloth tied round his neck makes him Superman, like he has intrinsic knowledge that life will turn out. It’s infectious, and uplifting, and Erik is fencing better than usual, although still clearly losing. As they move to take position for the last point, Erik thinks, with a pulse of desire, ‘God, what if he’s like this in bed,’ and promptly loses the point with his mouth still hanging open.

Charles drops his sword and then his head into one hand, all exhilaration gone. ‘Waiting for the ax to fall,’ Erik realizes, and, though he understands wanting to direct Charles, get him to do things for his pleasure, it has very little to do with the swords lying forgotten on the wooden floor. Erik says, “Charles,” so he’ll look up, notes Charles’ shock at the sight of Erik advancing on him, pulling off his clothing.

“That was so hot,” Erik says, almost naked, “and I need you to fuck me right now.”

“Right,” says Charles, snapping his mouth closed and tearing at his own whites. His eyes are wide, Erik hopes it’s from arousal given he is now stripped bare. 

“Shit, you’re gorgeous,” Charles breathes, hand snaking out to study pecs, then abs, then hip bone. Erik takes over disrobing Charles. He wants a chance to investigate too, and Charles has abandoned the task, distracted by the cock pointing at him.

“This is massive,” he announces, “it’s going to take two hands.” He doesn’t look upset by the prospect, instead leans gleefully forward to swirl his tongue around the head of it. Erik can’t help but take a sharp breath. He lets out a growl and his hands drift to pull at Charles’ hair, all awareness zeroing in on the friction of Charles’ tongue on him and the shudders that are being sucked out of him.

“We need to get to the bedroom. I want my fingers in you and the lubes there,” says Charles, slapping Erik on the buttock and leading the way. He removes his remaining items of clothing, while Erik follows, almost tripping at his heels. 

Charles arranges him on his back, and when he swarms up for a quick kiss, Erik is rocked to the core at the exuberance and the incandescent smile on Charles’ face. He pushes the firm shoulder, says, “Oh God, Charles, quick,” and, suddenly, Charles takes his cock back in his mouth and there is a slick finger edging gradually inside him. Charles is smoothing the skin under Erik’s balls with his thumb and Erik barely notices and second finger and a third. Erik squirms, frantic, “Now, now, now.”

Charles murmurs sweet things and reassurances while he gets into a condom and applies more lube. Then he shoves smoothly in. Erik cries, “Charles,” just as Charles mutters, “Fuck.” Erik is filled up with the exquisite man hovering above him, watches him moving, exclaiming, swearing, laughing, grasps at Charles’ arms as he is fucked hard and fast. His hands dig into the muscle, an orgasm jolting through him, as he tries to hang onto sense.

Charles leans over to kiss him again then starts thrusting harder, “So good, so perfect, fuck, fuck, yes Erik,” spilling out of him. He bites his lip and groans, stiff, gaze still stuck on Erik but glazing over. While Charles comes down, he kisses Erik wherever he can reach, then carefully pulls out and ties off the condom.

“Wait there, darling, I’ll fetch a towel,” he instructs Erik, who stretches and says, “Don’t worry, can’t move. Just been vigorously fucked by the most energetic man in creation. May never recover.”

Charles’ concerned face appears over him, “Are you alright? I didn’t take care of you. I’m shit at thinking about other people.” He starts cleaning Erik up.

“I’d have agreed with you less than a week ago when you landed on my terrace, but you are currently dealing with evidence that I have been taken care of.”

Charles laughs and throws the towel away, “I’m sleepy, will you stay?”

“I already told you I’m incapable of moving.”

Charles tucks Erik under the blanket and then himself against Erik’s side. Erik holds him, feels him start to drift, and just before sleep, Charles sucks a little purple circle under Erik’s collarbone then rests his head on it. “Mine,” he says, happily, closing his eyes.

 

Erik wakes, releases the scrunched sheet when he recognizes the scent of Charles, understands where he is. He can only see glimpses of Charles in the emerging light; the horizon of a muscular shoulder, a glowing forearm. Erik is in bed with a beautiful but confusing dichotomy. An academic who comments intelligently on Brahms, is dapper in a suit, fences with precision; then fucks Erik like a cave man and marks his claim. Usually intolerant of any hint of possessiveness, Erik is responding unexpectedly. Some previously unaccounted area inside him is preening and jingling shackles like they are jewelry. Where the hell is his control?

There is more light cast across tantalizing collarbones now. Erik gives into an urge to push down the frustrating blanket and, quickly after that, the urge to chart freckles with his mouth. Charles fidgets and Erik looks up in time to see him wrinkle his nose, peer one eyed at Erik then stretch out onto his stomach, nudging his head under the pillow. If this is meant to discourage Erik, it fails, because now there is a truly spectacular sight available, Charles’ bare ass. He begins to knead and nibble it. Charles makes an agreeable noise and shifts slightly. ‘God, someone should write sonnets about this ass,’ Erik thinks, spreading Charles a bit. He spends an indeterminate, but thoroughly enjoyable, amount of time licking and sucking from buttock dimples to ball sack and squeezing the freckled mounds with his long fingers.

“Fuck,” rumbles Charles, from beneath his pillow, and that breathless syllable ends Erik’s languid mood. He shoves Charles’ hips up and legs apart, invades his hole with with his tongue and roughly tugs on his cock. Charles is wriggling, struggling, and a filthy torrent of encouragement can just be heard muffled under feather down. Charles jerks, Erik loses his pace and, without thinking, he pulls back and slaps Charles brutally on the ass cheek. There is an intake of breath and silence, then Charles starts trembling and making a terrible sound. Erik thinks, ‘God, what have I done?’ and throws away the pillow and swipes the hair from Charles’ face.

“God, are you ok? I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

Charles grabs him and kisses him, says, “You sexy fuck! Yes, I’m fine, apart from lying in a sticky patch of come. I can’t believe you spanked me. That was awesome.”

“Oh,” manages Erik, all the fire gone out of him, “I don’t think I can do it again.”

After a quick wipe with the stiff towel from last night, Charles pushes Erik back and slithers up on top of him. Erik leans his head into Charles’ gentle fingers and drinks in his adoring expression.

“Alright?” questions Charles.

“I guess, I just don’t know where that came from.”

“I’ve been told I’m a bad influence...”

“I think... it’s your ass, it’s a sinful ass.”

“You can blame my bum if you want to. Perhaps it will be necessary to punish it?” Charles chuckles and wriggles, “Your cock liked that idea.”

“I like that idea.”

“Me too.”

Erik ignites again: gets behind Charles so he can see that sinful ass while he fucks it, gets a fistful of hair so he can make Charles look back to him, gets in so deep he forgets he’s never been there before.

“You are a delightful way to wake up,” says Charles, curling up beside him afterward. 

Erik has no response that is ok to say out loud after four days, so he pretends to be asleep until Charles actually is.


	3. Charles achieves quiet and Erik gets caught out.

With such gold medal sex to start off Charles’ Saturday, he bursts into cheerful song while soaping and scrubbing in the shower. Consequently, Erik is awake when Charles comes back into the room.

“Sorry, I forgot you’d be able to hear me.”

“I’m usually awake by now anyway.”

“Spend the weekend with me... Do you have plans?”

Erik laughs at himself, “Yeah, I have laundry to do.”

“Alright, we can do that right after my bout. But first, we need to go out for breakfast because I don’t own any of that cardboard crap you like. Have a shower, I’m going to search through some clothes Cain’s left here to see if there is anything you could fit.” He packs his bag while Erik is washing. .

When dressed, they make their way to a cafe, Charles chaffing a bit about walking at a normal pace and allowing himself a leap off the occasional stoop, Erik pretending exasperation. The waitress takes Erik’s muesli order, turns to Charles.

“If I eat bacon, am I jeopardizing my chances of being kissed by you?”

Erik responds, “No Charles,” just as the waitress says, “Definitely not.”

Erik and Charles both look at her and she flushes magenta.

“Bacon and eggs, please,” says Charles, calmly handing her the menu.

They arrive at Charles’ kickboxing studio, where he is thrilled to be fighting against someone with years more training. He loses the bout as, although he does get in some kicks he’s proud of and lands some amazing punches, a disproportionate amount connect with his head and ribs. It doesn’t worry him, he can take it, but there is a gratifyingly, anxious arm firmly around his shoulder all the way to Erik’s.

They take Erik’s laundry to the basement and Charles wants a photo of the look on Erik’s face when he confesses his doing laundry virginity. Charles learns how to sort, soak and work a machine. While the machines are washing, he entertains Erik by acting out the Thanksgiving episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, justifying taking his shirt off to portray the disturbed Native American spirits, and nailing Spike’s accent. “And then Buffy says, “It’s a yam sham.”” Erik snorts. 

Charles says proudly, “Excellent, your real education is begun.” 

“Well, your education in the art of laundry is only half way through. We’ve only covered washing the clothes so far, there is so much more to go,” Erik promises, and then teaches Charles what fabrics can tumble dry and what need hanging on the terrace, how to iron and, finally, the precise way Erik likes his socks and T-shirts folded. 

Erik cooks and Charles hovers at his hip, fascinated by both the recipe and the deftness of Erik’s hands. It’s hypnotic the way Erik, like geisha, is so immersed in the task, his movements exact and interlinked. Charles sinks into Erik’s stillness, for once not needing his own action to tame the chaos in his always full head. 

While they eat, Erik talks about learning piano at the Community Centre as a child but losing access to music during the four years he was in foster care. “Mr Shaw seemed to listen to La Vie en Rose over and over. I had recordings in my head, though, of the music I’d been learning and what Mama played at home. When I left, it was like I was soaking up as much as possible as fast as possible, but in the end, I like what I like.” He shrugs. 

Charles describes moving overseas at fifteen, “It was terrifying, no Cain and Raven to back me up. At least I never had to worry about money. As it was, I made some hideous mistakes from being naive and somewhat over confident at first. Oh, and I had even less tact than I have now. But then, being lonely paid off in a way. There was no one to pressure me into doing what they thought I should. I could choose if I wanted to... play rugby or chess or box or what ever. It was heady, that freedom. I went a bit mad at first and, at one point, there was about a month of smoking weed and selling genetically descriptive bracelets in a market.”

“Genetically descriptive bracelets?”

Charles is laughing, “I know, it seemed like such a good idea at the time. I had beads with letters and numbers on them and when someone bought one, I’d string them up with the appropriate genetic code to describe their features. It got old very quickly, and then some free runners ran past me one day. The next week I got up and ran after them.”

They get dressed up and Charles takes Erik to a bar in a hotel Atrium where there is a Grand piano and a pianist. The look Erik gives him almost melts him; a cocktail of gratefulness, desire and pleading with a dash of fear. Charles wants to kiss answers back at him; anytime, me too, yes to everything and please don’t. Instead he gets them drinks and sits silently with his index finger touching Erik’s ring finger as it hangs gracefully off the end of the arm rest.

Charles stays with Erik. They kiss slowly, undress each other tenderly and clasp their cocks together, rolling them into the nest of fingers, molten and unhurried. Erik stares intently at Charles, who is murmuring his verbal litany, and they come together, Erik forgetting to breathe and Charles shouting out. Charles reaches out with his lips to anchor himself.

After Charles wipes them clean, he falls blissfully asleep on Erik’s shoulder, the din in his head muted like a blurry watercolor.

 

 

Raven picks them up and drives them to Westchester for the planned brunch. Erik’s heart races: likely Raven’s driving, maybe the prospect of meeting Charles’ mother, possibly the exuberance rolling off Charles, expressed with his eyebrows, his hands and some unnecessary cursing. As they unfold from the car, Erik admits his adrenaline is also reacting to Charles’ jeans, which might as well be hanging in a closet for all the visual protection they’re providing against Erik’s hot gaze. He wipes his wet palms on his own less form fitting jeans.

Charles’ mother is gracious but not completely engaged in the conversation. Erik thanks her for the kosher and meat free options on the over catered table and quickly realizes from her blank response that, not only is there a team in a kitchen somewhere, but that Charles had bypassed his mum and forewarned them directly.

Erik is introduced to Cain Marko, Charles and Raven’s stepbrother. He is a huge man. He and Charles rough house and tease and smile. Cain has an arm over Charles’ shoulder; Charles is looking up at Cain with a beaming face. Erik gets a creepy chill, feels it is somewhat validated when he spots Raven frowning in their direction also.

Sharon Marko inquires of Erik, “You’re a town planner?”

“Yes, Mrs Marko.”

“Cain, can’t we find something for Erik to do at the company?”

“Mum!” protests Charles, “for fuck’s sake.”

Raven adds, “Not everyone has to work at the company, Mom, besides, give it a minute, they just met a week ago, and he’ll probably be gone in another one.”

Charles is staring at Erik, who crinkles in puzzlement back, until Charles deliberately looks at the two fingers Erik has unconsciously pressed over the purple mark under his collarbone. Erik’s mouth gapes, watching Charles’ mouth curve up at the corner; there is no way he can pretend he wasn’t just grasping at a hickey like it was a promise. What the hell, Lehnsherr? He sticks his hand determinedly in his pocket.

After eating, Erik and Cain shoot arrows at targets, while the others sip drinks and watch from deck chairs. Erik is reasonably well matched with Cain. He relaxes into the contentment of being immersed in the task at hand. While fostered at the Shaw place, Erik had read food stained fantasy books and found hope in the template of them: come from nowhere, prove yourself, win the lady or restore your honor. He looks over at Charles, who is gesticulating jerkily, head tilted up and feet planted broadly, the inarguable foreground to a fifteen bedroom mansion on manicured grounds. ‘Every knight serves a lord,’ thinks Erik.

Raven pours Erik a drink and he settles on a chair to watch Cain and Charles fling targets for each other to shoot. Sharon wanders off. Charles winks at Erik and draws his bow. Cain frisbees a round target and Charles takes it down, and the next, and the next. Erik finds himself infected with the joy Charles has in any given moment, as he was when they fucked, while fencing, during the speech and even doing laundry.

“Watch this, Erik!” Charles is calling, now waiting for Cain to toss the target before drawing and aiming, arrows not connecting with every shot, but the light in his blue eyes flaring. 

Raven observes, “I haven’t seen Charles show off since we were small... since Dad died. You know he was a twin?” She nods at Erik’s raised eyebrow, “A girl, she died young. I’m her replacement, though I didn’t quite work out like they hoped. Charles has been trying to be two people for years.”

“Did you see that?” Charles yells, face luminous.

“I saw,” promises Erik, “Wanna guess what you win if you get five in a row?”

The arrow releases and misses by a yard, as Charles fails to both look away from Erik and not resemble a fish. Erik gives him his best big smile.

“Starting now!” shouts Charles, three vertical lines appearing between his eyebrows in his determination.

“I withdraw my previous statement about you not being around in a week,” says Raven.

“Thanks,” says Erik, and then stands up, “Oh God, he’s going to do it.”

Sure enough, Charles shoots five in a row, shakes his bow in the air victoriously and then dumps all the equipment in a pile. He runs to Erik, grabs his wrist, telling Raven, “I’m just gonna, uh, show Erik... something...”

“Subtle,” says Raven, returning to the house with Cain dragging behind her.

Erik and Charles disappear into the tree line. Charles leans back against a broad tree, pulling Erik toward him. He fishes Erik’s cock out, rubbing it with both hands. Erik reciprocates, and they get each other off while Charles runs through the gamut of complimentary adjectives starting with the poetic and descending into the filthy as he comes. 

After kissing Erik, Charles asks, “Is this going to happen every time we do something I’m good at?”

“Yep,” confirms Erik.

“Awesome,” says Charles.

 

 

It seems redundant to Erik, after their first week together, that Charles take him to the promised Opera, but Charles insists.

“I suppose I’m expected to put out after dinner and the Opera,” says Erik, watching the curve of Charles’ ass as he follows him up the stairs.

“You’re not Julia Roberts, Erik,” says Charles, as crisp as his shirt points and the creases of his tux.

Erik loves the spectacle of the Opera, the irony of it and of course, the swell of the music. It fills him and, then, escapes through his goosebumps. He notices Charles, for all his taking over Erik’s stereo at breakfast to play DJ Shadow, sits forward when the Fiordiligi sings Per pieta, ben mio and the hand that isn’t circling Erik’s wrist clenches the balcony railing.

As they file out afterwards, several couples hail Charles, who greets them, enquires after their health or their children or their investments, then introduces Erik with his hand firmly on the back of Erik’s jacket. The men, once introduced, focus on Charles, dismissing Erik to their wives scrutiny. He is as dazzled by their diamonds as he was by the costumes on stage. 

One woman, Suzanne Chan, links her arm with Erik. “It’s my function, right now, to entertain you while my husband deciphers whether Charles can help him in his current endeavor. Also, the more I know about you, the better to negotiate my standing with the other... well, I can’t say ladies and be exclusively correct,” she says, nodding to indicate Erik is one of them.

“I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

“It’s sink or swim. There is always some younger, more charming model with greater connections itching to take over,” she indicates an elegant, brunette woman, focus locked on Charles and Mr Chan, clearly assessing their target worthiness.

Erik says dismissively, “I only met him a week ago.” He knows his stern expression is holding, though his guts are roiling.

Charles takes him to a sumptuous restaurant, warning Erik, “I’ve pre-ordered everything.” Erik would normally find this presumptuous, only he knows it wasn’t meant in arrogance, just the practicality of dealing with a menu that wouldn’t have catered to Erik’s restrictions.

“Thank you for thinking ahead,” is all he says.

“You’re welcome. It was really fun actually,” replies Charles, and Erik can’t tell if Charles is caught up in the enthusiasm of the moment or desperate to impress. 

A minute later, listening to Charles discuss wine matches in rapid French with the sommelier, Erik thinks it is foolish to think Charles would ever need to impress him. He sips his really excellent wine and wonders how in hell he got here, at the elbow of an absolutely beautiful man, in a restaurant in which the wine in the cellar costs more than everything Erik owns. 

Charles is watching Erik with a smirk and half closed eyes. “So fucking good looking,” he mutters. 

Erik averts his gaze, only to see a tiny blonde approaching the table. “I think someone is coming over.” 

She is smiling, confident and self satisfied, and Charles stands up to greet her. “Amy, you look stunning.” He introduces Erik, but his hand is on Amy’s back this time. Erik misses it on his, facing them over the gulf of the table. “Amy was at Oxford with me. What are you doing here, love?” 

“I’ve been sent over, for work. Did you not see all the palaver on my facebook? I messaged you too, you didn’t respond. It must be a trial when you have so many facebook friends.”

“And no time to check it. Still, it’s fabulous to see you.”

“Yes, I hoped to catch you.” She is standing too close to Charles for Erik’s comfort. He starts plotting how to dispose of the small blonde and make it look accidental. He is tossing up between food poisoning, given they are in a restaurant, or getting her to the aquarium and pushing her in with the sharks when she is saved by the arrival of the appetizers. She doesn’t appreciate her formally precarious position and seems disappointed not to have been invited to join them. 

Charles farewells Amy, Erik makes a kind of huh sound at her, and the men both sit down to eat. 

“I tried to pick her up one night in a bar and it almost worked but I was interrupted by... um, can’t remember, Raven! Raven was over to visit.”

“I’d say it definitely worked.”

“Really?” questions Charles, looking around. “Well, too late for her, eh?” He hooks a foot around Erik’s ankle.

Erik, mollified for the time being, lets the food and wine and teasing conversation slide past his throat. He loves to watch Charles, even eating; it doesn’t matter what he’s doing really. 

After Charles has paid and they are seeking a taxi, Erik warns, “When I take you out, Charles, I can’t take you places like this.”

“I know, darling, but as much as I enjoy a night like tonight, I’d like something else a lot better. That is what works nicely about us. You like this kind of thing and I can provide it for you. My idea of a good night is different and you can provide it for me.”

“It’s uneven,” insists Erik.

“It doesn’t matter, if the end result is we’re both happy, that part is even.”

Erik ignores that and grumbles, “It’s easy to be generous when you have money. If you grow up with scarcity, you learn to parcel things out and end up looking selfish when you’re being careful.”

“I don’t think you’re selfish.”

“I don’t want to be just a pretty companion.”

“What the hell? I never said you were!”

“What on earth could I do for you that measures up?” Erik says bitterly, hands in pockets.

Charles says dismissively, “You will think of something.”

Erik can foresee ruin in his near future.

“Come up,” he says gruffly, when the car pulls up outside his building.

“Alright,” agrees Charles, amiably, and pays the driver. 

Erik gets them drinks, once inside, and finds Chet Baker on his iPod. Charles is on the terrace, sprawled on the bench seat, one hand on his belly.

“May have over ordered,” he says, accepting his brandy without blinking, although he’d just been sipping 20 year Armagnac at the restaurant. Erik is frowning because he wants a fuck, and Charles looks like he might starts farting or snoring or both. And, damn, it makes him dizzy how swiftly Charles can switch from Lord of the Manor to beer bum.

“I’ll rub it... your stomach, I mean,” Erik offers, kneeling next to the bench seat.

“Really?” asks Charles, the adoring look back in his eyes.

Erik pulls up the shirt, unbuttons the waistcoat and unbuckles the waistband. He rubs, clockwise, rotating slowly and pressing firmly, until Charles shifts and says, “Look what you did.” He pushes his boxers down and a very stiff cock springs out. 

“Sorry,” says Erik, not looking at all sorry, “I guess I could rub that too.”

“You better,” threatens Charles, then hisses because Erik is sucking the whole thing in, doing his skillful best to somehow hold on to the man on his terrace, and not let him fade out of his life as rapidly as the love bites on Erik’s skin did. 

“Erik.” There is a definite whine to the exclamation.

“Yes Charles,” he inquires, stroking smoothly while he stops to talk.

“I hope you can swallow it ‘cause I don’t want to stain your tux.”

“Of course, whatever you want.”

Charles sits up, as if he has suddenly read Erik’s mood. There is a curious glint in his eye, just visible by the terrace lantern. “What do you want?” he challenges, “If you weren’t just a pretty companion, that is.” 

Erik grabs Charles by the lapels, hauls him up and shoves him up against the brick wall. He drops the tux trousers, renews the blow job with frantic intensity and Charles yells, “Fuck!” as he comes. Erik catches the spurts of fluid and smears it on Charles, lifting and propping him between the wall and the back of the bench seat, and wedging himself in the triangle of legs and bunched trousers. He releases his own cock and retrieves the condom Charles keeps in his wallet.

“Put it on me,” he orders, holding Charles up. Charles obeys as quickly as he can.

“Oh my God,” quavers Charles, as Erik pushes through Charles’ own come and inside him. Charles is clinging to Erik’s shoulders and pushing into Erik’s thrusts, dress shoes slipping on the bench seat. Erik comes with his forehead against the wall, teeth around the skin on Charles’ neck.

Charles is laughing and hiccoughing. “Usually when I poke things with a stick, it bites me in the ass. This time it bit me on the neck and poked me in the ass.”

“Well, you’ve learnt a lesson.”

“I’m sorry, my delightful man, but I probably have not.”


	4. Erik goes to a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, this chapter is late and rough. If you hang in there, the next chapters have devilry and a proposal.
> 
> Also, luninosity rocks. Nothing here would have happened without her inspiring it. <3

“Erik,” says Charles, appearing at Erik’s office door, “Let’s get tested so I can fuck you in the ass without wearing condoms.”

“Hello Charles,” Erik replies dryly, “You look well.”

Charles invites himself in, “Not sure how, I had a latte and a lollipop for breakfast.”

“Well, if you will go drinking with Raven mid week...” Erik has had a month now to learn and recognize all Charles’ different moods and habits.

“I want to take you to lunch. Perhaps we can have the cringe making sexual histories discussion... which wouldn’t be necessary if we got tested!” Charles, hungover, is cantankerous; it makes Erik more polite.

“What an inviting prospect, but, sadly, I have this to do today.” Erik snatches up a random file.

“The Worthington Building, not due to break ground until March next year?” smirks Charles, reading upside down and utilizing inside knowledge thanks to his friendship with Warren.

Damn. “Oh well, my history will take about three seconds.”

“Mine will take about three bottles of Zinfandel.”

“We are both exaggerating, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” says Charles, flapping a hand. He perches himself on the desk, with his wingtip on Erik’s chair. “Think about this, baby...”

“Don’t call me baby. It’s weird, I’m five years older than you.”

“Alright, Erik,” says Charles, slowing down and using his best Queen’s diction. “Think about how much you like to get your big, hard cock and push it up against my tight, little arsehole. Think about how you like to do it from behind so you can play with this bum.” He twists off the desk so Erik can view said ass. “Think about how good it feels when you sink right up inside me,” he sits on Erik’s lap. “Think about,” Charles says, grinding, “how good that would be if you didn’t have to share the space with latex.”

“How long is your lunch break?” gasps Erik, one hand on Charles crotch, the other unbuttoning the evil man’s sweater vest.

“Long enough for three bottles of Zin. We can condense it to two...” Erik squeezes him. “One!”

Later, they sneak out of the building, trying not to look like they just sucked each other off in Erik’s office. Erik has mischief makers remorse, certain he will recall Charles’ whispered, ‘Fuck baby, no one sucks cock like you,’ every time he picks up the Worthington file, a damn three year project. 

“Why do I always give in to you?” he laments.

“Uh, ‘cause I’m always right.”

Charles leads him into a restaurant, secures a booth, and they sit improperly close together. Erik will have to eat with his right hand and Charles with his left. 

“Of course I’ll get tested Charles,” Erik says, after they’ve ordered, “You were exaggerating though, weren’t you?”

So they partially cover the awful histories conversation anyway, but it is dulled by the smugness of their afterglow and a Napa Zinfandel. 

“I don’t want to hear about the girls you had anymore,” Erik tells Charles, grimacing, “I only have a knife to bring to that gunfight.”

“Oh darling, what you have isn’t just a knife. It’s a fucking samurai sword.”

Erik goes back to work after lunch, accompanied by brilliantly hot self satisfaction and tentative hope, neither of which have been his acquaintances for half his life. They stay with him as he works late to make up for the long lunch. He decides to pick up dinner and groceries on his way home, finally stumbling into the dark, cold apartment weary and hungry. He immediately pours some beer to drink while he files his foodstuffs. He is just putting the hummus away, top shelf, label facing forward, when there is a pitiful knock on the French doors. Erik jumps and his skin stays static.

Charles is shivering; he’s been running, is in a T-shirt at the end of October and Erik is not sure how long he’s been on the terrace. Charles is curled in on himself. Erik has to pull him inside.

Erik tucks him up on the couch with blankets and pours brandy. Charles is hitting his own thigh with a white knuckled fist. Erik smoothes the hand out and presses his palm against the cold one, deciphers from the painfully bright eyes that this is not an issue of being cold.

“What...?” he asks, but is interrupted.

“I try really hard, don’t I? Why can I not satisfy people? Even when I do a good job, or I’m good at something, people just get disappointed that I’m not committed to getting even better.” Charles gulps the brandy and drops the glass. “You don’t,” he tells Erik, wistfully, “when I do stuff, you just like me.” 

“Of course, I do, you’re amazing.”

Charles face crumples like the grocery receipt Erik has just screwed up and binned, whispers, “It’s going to hurt so much when I let you down.”

“I don’t think you can,” Erik declares, but he thinks, ‘Unless you leave me.” He keeps his lips tightly clamped against that thought getting voiced and putting more pressure on the over pumped tyre that is Charles’ self control.

“We’ll see.” Charles rests his forehead on the back of the couch.

“Who did you let down today?” Erik knows there was a trigger.

“The board. They want me to do more. Always ‘more for the company’ and ‘it’s your name’ and crap like that.”

“Well,” says Erik, removing Charles‘ trainers and chaffing his sock covered feet, “You could tell them you’ll do it, but it will require a restructure, because you’ll be taking over some of their responsibilities so you’ve been forced to demote them and reduce their salaries. Give a couple of them notice. Say it’s effective by the end of the semester. See how many of them offer to be helpful by November.”

Charles lifts his head, mouth open, blue eyes peeking through a floppy fringe. “You are an evil genius. And you look so respectable on the outside. I’m dating a villain.”

Erik twirls his imaginary moustache, growls, “Your virtue is in serious jeopardy.”

Charles snorts, “Too late,” and laughs. It lifts Erik’s heart as much as he was aiming to lift Charles’. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“I’m alright,” says Charles, back to being stoic, but he accepts soup and crackers, a sweater and a game of chess anyway. He agrees when Erik asks him to stay the night, so Erik tucks in beside him and brushes his hands all over Charles’ compact body like he’s dusting the concerns right off him.

“Charles? What do you normally do if you... you know, feel like... tonight?”

“Running usually works, or a good dance... like a really crowded club. Sometimes I have to lock myself away and focus on the problem, but mainly it takes action to distract me from my own brain. It’s like there are lots of different people in there all saying stuff but, it’s all me. Does your head do that? Raven says hers doesn’t and Cain says I’m a geeky freak. Nothing really stops the whir of it all, ‘cept that first time I stayed over here. That’s why I came tonight, probably. You make it quiet in here.” He rubs his finger tips on his temple. 

Erik hurumphs and says, “Let’s sleep. I’m tired from being cheated out of a win at chess.” He watches Charles’ hand skim down from temple to chin as his breathing slows and rolls into soft snores. He stays awake for a long time, wondering how to keep this miracle in his life.

 

Erik hates costume parties. Raven loves them. This is unsurprising, given she works in costuming in the theatre and she shares her birthday with Halloween. Erik kisses Raven on the cheek.

“I absolutely hate this, but you look lovely.”

“So charming, after I made the theme 1920’s so you can listen to jazz and your costume could be a suit.” 

“Appreciated, Raven. Happy Birthday.” He passes her his gift and she rips off the paper, snaps open the vintage box. “It’s only silver but the pearls are real,” he explains, touching the bracelet. “My great Grandma buried the family jewelry before the war and my Grandfather dug it up years later. He was a boy during the war, the only one of my Ma’s family to survive the camps. I got it all when Mama died. Do you like it? I thought it looked like something you might wear even though it’s not modern.”

“I can’t Erik, it’s your family’s.”

“Raven,” he admonishes, putting it on her, “I am my family now... and Charles... and, therefore, you.”

Raven throws herself at Erik, hugging him, then quickly turning away. He can hear her sniffing, and he shuffles off to fortify himself with vodka. He teams up with Dr McCoy, a Xavier Lab research scientist, and they secrete themselves in a corner. Hank is talkative with some booze in him. Erik has a great view of Charles, dancing, laughing, charming guests. At one point, Cain picks Charles up, spinning him over his shoulder and they both crash into a formally solid and expensive side table.

The house at Westchester is hung with lanterns that look like moons. Erik is starting to get a bit drunk. He’s on the patio, running his hand across the brickwork. This house belongs to his boyfriend. He looks up. Yep, still the hugest damn house he’s ever seen. What in hell does he provide in this lopsided relationship? 

Charles finds him and sits on one of the bench seats, legs crossed, watching him. “You look like what I always imagined Jake from Fiesta looks like,” Charles tells him. 

“And you are like the mysterious Gatsby.”

“Cute. Unrequited for both of us then. At least, mine ends in a quick and painful manner.” He stands up, “I want to show you something.” 

He leads Erik around the house which they enter from a different door. They go through a barely lit library then down a corridor to the staircase. Charles runs up the stairs, Erik following, hopefully sedately rather than wobbly. Charles slides down the bannister then runs back up.

“This way,” he says, turning the corner, “This is my room, but I haven’t spent much time here since I was fifteen.”

It hasn’t been touched bar dusting and vacuuming. There is still a Kill Bill picture on the wall and a 2004 Yearbook on a desk. Charles flicks on the stereo; The Strokes are on it. Erik is arrested by a section of bookshelf with trophies on it, not displayed, sardined in. He deciphers, from the tacky gold figures, fencing, baseball and sailing before Charles pulls him away, saying, suave and expectant, “I didn’t really bring you up here to see my trophies.” 

Erik can see young Charles in the face before him, inserted into this time melting room, the one who thought, if he tried a bit harder, he could stop his parents being sad. He wants to say something to be a band aid, to make Charles understand life is elevated just by his standing in front of Erik, heart beating and lungs breathing, that Erik would have no purpose without him. A kind of grunt comes out, a wordless despair at not being enough to fix things.

Erik was at university when this music was being played by his peers and a previous partner. Assisted by vodka, it’s making him remember the serious boy he was, and his determination that everything would be ok if he just kept pretending he wasn’t angry and that it didn’t matter he was alone.

Charles has his head cocked to one side trying to read Erik’s thoughts from the clues on his face. His dark blue eyes are huge, his teeth worrying his lip again and the strong hands are fists at his side. Erik finally thinks of something to say, “Do I really get to keep you?”

Charles says, “Oh,” eyes going manga-wide now, and then, smiling, “I think we get to keep each other, if you want.”

Erik’s guts twist in an inflaming way; his breathing stutters. Awkwardly, as if he is eleven and leaning toward Suzannah Gold after temple, Erik painstakingly approaches Charles. He might wake up at any minute or Charles might turn into water and cascade away, if he does it wrong. The triumph when he does kiss Charles, softly and so delicately, is overwhelming and he tilts back to try and breathe. 

Charles slips his hand into Erik’s and waits. 

Erik knows being alone is no longer acceptable.

After a long time, Erik surfaces from the deluge of his doubts and focusses on Charles, who is self conscious. Erik has never seen Charles self conscious, it doesn’t balance well on his shoulders. He squeezes the hand still clutching his and Charles sighs, “You know what I have to do now.” 

“You don’t have to, Charles, if you don’t want to, don’t. Buy her a watch or something.”

“But she loves it. It means more.”

“Yes, true, but anything else would still mean enough.”

“Fuck! Suck it up Charles,” he tells himself, standing up. Erik switches the stereo and lights off and follows him back to the party. 

On the way down the stairs, Charles says, “You can find your way back to my room, yes? ‘Cause we can stay the night, and you can escape the party whenever you’ve had enough.”

“Not just yet,” says Erik, taking Charles by his sweaty hand.

Charles gains the attention of the room by turning the music down and yelling, “Shut the fuck up!” He raises his glass, “Happy Birthday, Raven. The day you came home with Mum and Dad, I was ecstatic because I thought I was getting someone to boss around. Ill-founded, as it turns out. But I am... so damn glad it was you. You’re extraordinary. To Raven!”

“To Raven!” yells the room.

“Thanks for coming, everyone,” Raven sing-songs, her dimpled smile glowing, “Thanks Charles, for my party. Thanks for all my presents, especially my bracelet.” She waves her arm, “Best present...”

“Don’t finish that sentence, I haven’t given you mine yet,” says Charles, and Erik sets the iPod playing a thumping, current tune. Charles takes Raven’s hands and does a complicated time step to the beat. She squawks and covers her mouth with her hands, hopping on one foot in glee. “Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my god,” she chants while Charles starts tapping his way around the floor space. Erik doesn’t watch with his mouth open like he did when he first saw Charles practice the previous week; he can see past the footwork, the comparisons to Christopher Walken, to Charles, who is pink and not quite meeting anyone’s eyes. When Charles comes near him, Erik claps him on the shoulder and Charles starts, looks around and, then, smiles. He shrugs off his embarrassment and he meets the music, his audience and his decision to do this head on, tap dancing in a suit as Fergie sings, A little party never killed nobody. 

Charles fully engaged in anything is magical; Erik understands why Raven loves to see this.

When the song is done, Raven flings herself at her brother and squeals as he swings her around. Charles kisses her hair fondly. Erik puts his arm around Charles’ waist, waiting until Raven is dragged away by the ebb of the party, then dances with his big hearted boyfriend, inhaling his scent and his bravery and his passion. 

“I want to kiss you,” Erik says.

“You can.”

Erik’s eyes flick around at the crowd. His self consciousness is under his skin and isn’t ever cast off, but he wants to match Charles’ courage so gives him a gentle kiss that, hopefully, tells Charles how proud he is to be with him.

“Thanks baby,” whispers Charles.

“I’ve asked you not to call me baby,” says Erik, but smiles and twirls them. 

Soon, Erik can tell Charles is getting frustrated with the barriers between them, namely their suits and the other people in the room. “Bed?” he suggests into Charles’ hair.

“Yes,” agrees Charles, towing him to the walls that cocooned his adolescence. 

Erik closes the door and Charles pokes at the stereo. He is grinning. “Incubus. Sorry, we are stuck in 2004.” 

Erik has been taken hold of by something that makes him lunge forward, awkward but too eager to be graceful. He has Charles by the shoulders and kisses him hard and messy. The suits occur as a ridiculous juxtaposition to the raw sounds coming from the stereo and from them, so Erik tugs their jackets and waistcoats off while Charles works on their ties and shirt buttons. Charles is laughing and Erik wants him to always laugh and never be trapped like he was downstairs while dancing for Raven.

When they are clothes free and in Charles’ childhood bed, Erik lets go, lets Charles’ desires and intentions dictate, allows himself to be carried to a sticky and peaceful conclusion.

 

Erik goes over to Charles’ place after work a few Tuesdays later, thinking they will likely go to the rock wall to climb, then eat, then fuck, but Charles flings open the door with the smile of a rascal, says, “I’ve a surprise for you,” and steps aside. There is a piano against the living space wall.

Erik looks at Charles, looks at the piano, looks back to Charles. 

“I didn’t know how to get it into your place, sorry. I know that means you can’t play it whenever you want, unless you move in here. Come and look though.” He grabs Erik’s wrist and tows him to the piano stool.

Erik strokes the keys, presses middle C. “Charles,” he starts, but there is a knock at the door.

“Shit, quick, tell me you like it or I’ll have to send the piano teacher away.”

“You got me lessons?”

“Yeah, but no music. We’ll go shopping for that together.” He hesitates by the door, “Shall I open it?”

“Yes please.”

Charles lets the teacher in, a chirpy older lady, who pinches Charles’ cheek. Charles is delighted.

“Call me Jean, dear,” says the teacher, settling Erik on the stool.

Erik can smell Charles cooking while Jean tests him and takes him through some of the syllabus. Erik feels foolish at first, there is a cartoon cat on the music for God’s sake, but Jean is like Mrs Green from next door when he was growing up and Charles calls, “That sounds awesome,” from the kitchen, so shortly creating a melody from black dots and rusty fingers takes all of Erik’s attention.

Charles tries to feed Jean at the end of the lesson, but she declines. He thrusts a cake box toward her, “At least take some of this cake, Jean. Erik and I can’t eat it all.”

“Erik needs to eat,” she says, giving him a list of music to buy, “he’s too skinny.”

“He’s perfect,” says Charles firmly, wrapping her hands around the cake box.

“See you next week, boys,” calls Jean, as the door shuts behind her.

Erik hugs Charles. “Thank you,” he says, “just thank you.” 

“I have a compulsion to make you happy,” Charles admits, playing with Erik’s shirt collar.

“You do,” Erik squeezes his waist. “Perhaps it’s because every time you try, I reward you with sex.”

“Are you training me?”

Erik chuckles, “Oh yeah, Charles, you’re the one in thrall.”

They eat, Charles watching Erik and curving his mouth into a smirk whenever Erik looks up. Then, in the store, surrounded by shelves of sheet music, with Charles racing around, crowing in triumph when he finds a piece and singing the melody if he recognizes the title, Erik says, “I love you,” and Charles skids to a stop.

“What?” His blue eyes are glowing like gems on white gold.

“I love you.”

Charles is still frozen like prey, so Erik reassures him, “You kind of knew anyway, so you know I don’t need it back.”

“Alright,” says Charles slowly, and kisses him with the sheets of music crushed between them.

 

 

Erik is surprised to hear Raven on the other end of the phone. 

“What did you do to Charles?”

“Pardon?”

“He’s taken over the library at the house, he’s listening to the cook’s old Alice In Chains records and Jeff Buckley, I’m pretty sure he’s stoned, he’s definitely drunk.... What happened?”

“I don’t know, he seemed fine. A little freaked out when I said I love you...”

“Oh well, that’s it then. Did you ask him for something too?”

“What? No, what in hell...?”

“Look, either you asked him for something, to do something, to be something and he’s trying to figure out if you’re worth it, or you didn’t and he’s trying to figure out what you do want from him.”

“That’s what he thinks?”

“That’s how it’s always been.”

“He... he was joking about me training him... I thought he was joking. I feel sick.”

“I bet he chased you. I bet he spoils you. I bet he says the whole time how shit he is at looking after people.”

“He learnt how to cook kosher for me and bought me a piano.”

“Have you actually done anything for him?” 

“Nothing like he does,” admits Erik, in shame.

“Well, I know what I’m dealing with now. I know what to do.”

“Me too.”

Raven pauses, says, “Do I need to say? Don’t fuck with him.”

“No, but neither of you will believe what I say. I’ll have to do something. I have a plan.”


	5. Charles shows Erik new heights.

‘Maybe I didn’t need to drink that much,’ thinks Charles. His session, in the library with the Scotch, has provoked a general feeling of being ill-used, and no helpful resolution. Charles’ dilemma regarding Erik is unchanged, he is still unsure what the man could want from him but determined to provide it. 

To make the day worse, Moira definitely looks like she is plotting against him. He glances over at her again; she narrows her eyes and taps her pen on her chin a few times.

“Errgh...” he says. 

Hell. Not the most scholarly of statements. 

He tries again, “Um, I might take a run this lunch time... See you at 2:30?”

Moira nods curtly. Seriously, it doesn’t feel safe to look away in case she makes a murderous move. He backs away quickly.

Charles changes into his track pants and Feiyue training shoes and heads off campus to meet Alex, who is waiting with Remy and Janos. They all greet each other, slapping hands together and asking, “What’s up?”

“So Prof,” says Alex, as Charles stretches a hamstring, “I did not know you’re gay.”

“What? I don’t really have a fixed orientation but I don’t understand...”

“Just met your boyfriend. He’s freakin‘ awesome.” 

“You met Erik? How...”

“He dropped this off,” Alex waves a key. “Unused building, he convinced the owner to let us play in it! Just for today, you gotta bring the key back tonight. Or I can do it if you’re still mad at him, he said.” Alex raises his eyebrows.

“I’m not mad at him. Let’s do it.”

“Hell yeah, let’s do it!”

The four men run South; Alex leads. They unlock the door, looking around furtively, even though they have permission, and once inside there is a chorus of enthusiastic cursing. The building is an ideal playground: recently occupied, so still clean with no debris, some furniture scattered in various rooms, a central staircase curving around a multi floor void. They explore all over the building at a run, diving over desks and leaping off tables. 

One of the rooms has a mezzanine and the boys take turns flipping off it. Then, Charles climbs the centre of the staircase like it’s a rock wall, copied by the others. Once at the top, Remy drops back down the central void, catching hold of the bannisters at each floor to slow his progress, as if he was abseiling with no ropes. Charles immediately follows him, whooping on his way down. Charles isn’t the only one with a ridiculously giddy smile on his face, as they chase each other around the building, slipping and leaping and laughing out loud.

Charles and Janos are going to be late back because they’re reluctant to leave the building. 

Alex is now Erik’s biggest fan. “You better give that man the best fucking blow job tonight, brother,” he advises Charles.

“I’m not a whore, Alex.”

“I’m just saying, Prof, that’s a handsome guy. Some other crafty homo will snap that shit up, if you’re not careful.”

They slap hands and Charles heads back to school. He texts Erik, ‘I’ll drop key off post training? 8ish? Alex says I owe you a BJ’ and gets back, ‘Alex is very smart’.

At training, Charles is taking a pounding from his sparring partner. After a kick to the head, he can’t keep upright and drops to the mat face first. A frowning Erik appears in front of him, “Charles!”

“Hello darling,” says Charles, still mushed up on the mat. He pushes himself up and turns to his opponent. Suddenly, he’s holding his own, even landing some decent kicks.

“Are you busy now?” asks Erik, at the end of training, as Charles pulls tape off his ankle. “Got marking or anything to do?

“No, I’m good.”

“I have a surprise.”

“Another one?”

“Yeah, but I have a favor to ask too.”

“Oh.”

“Need help in the shower?”

“Perve, I won’t be long.” Charles is quickly clean and changed into jeans and a hoodie. Erik circles an arm around him as Charles asks, “What’s the favor?”

“Will you come to Boston with me this weekend and watch me compete? We’ll go up Friday night, come back Sunday.”

“Yes, I will,” his arm slips around Erik’s waist. “Where are we going now?”

“We are going to the cinema to watch The Young Master.”

“You like Kung Fu films?” Charles is incredulous.

“Probably not,” Erik answers honestly, “don’t know, never watched one. But you like them.”

“Erik,” Charles says, kissing him quickly, “are you wooing me?”

Erik nods, “Less training you; more wooing you . Next time I tell you I love you, you will be ecstatic to hear it.”

“Well, today is really helping,” declares Charles.

“One more thing. You haven’t eaten yet, so I bought you this.” Erik holds out a bag.

“Fuck yes! A cheeseburger from that diner I love. Wait, you’re a pescatarian.”

“I don’t have to eat it.”

Erik actually likes the film. He is a bit confused in the opening scenes, and during the lion dance, but, once the fighting starts, he perks up. He laughs out loud when Jackie Chan puts on a skirt and uses it in his kung fu. 

“I love how they use what ever comes to hand to fight with; just like parkour,” comments Charles, meditatively.

“He just wanted to do the honorable thing; like a knight but no chain mail,” is Erik’s assessment. 

Charles laughs and takes him home. After all, he owes Erik a blow job.

 

On Friday, they fly up and check in late, so they get room service and stay in.

After dinner, Charles wants to know, “Can I get you off or are you on a pre competition ban?”

“You can do whatever you like,” Erik says, piling up the dishes.

“Ah, but I’m here as your support crew. It's about what you need, Erik. You tell me.” He hauls his sweater and T-shirt over his head, watches Erik’s eyes glue on the planes of his torso. Smiling a bit cockily, he drops his jeans too, makes sure Erik is watching when he digs through the suitcase for lube.

“Let me get this straight, it’s about what I need, but it involves lube and you naked?”

“This is just a serving suggestion,” says Charles, climbing out of his boxers, onto the bed and bouncing a little.

“Oh,” says Erik, “Ok.” He rearranges a love seat to face the bed and seats himself. “Open yourself up for me, I want to watch you get ready for my cock.”

Charles’ eyes expand; he freezes. He can see an incredible amount of teeth over there on the love seat. Sometimes his boyfriend is frightening.

“And when you’re ready,” Erik continues, almost casually, “you can come over here and ride me.” He sits back with his hands behind his head, stretches his legs out, nods to the lube. Charles looks down at the bottle in his hand, then scrambles to carry out his instructions.

He has never enjoyed being obedient as much as this moment, a normally pleasurable task increased by the tension zinging across the distance between them and by Erik’s watchfulness. Charles’ focus is in a tug of war; sawing back and forth from the sweetness of making Erik squirm to the shards of shaking heat he creates in his own body. 

By the time he is on Erik’s lap, sinking luxuriously onto Erik’s cock, he is so excited he comes almost immediately and has to catch it in Erik’s unbuttoned shirt so it doesn’t slop on the hotel upholstery. 

Erik sheds the shirt impatiently and secures Charles with one hand on his hip and one in his hair. “Go,” he orders.

Charles, as he lifts himself up just to shove back down again, thinks he would do anything Erik said at this point. He knows his eyes are huge with reverence, his hands can only be described as grabby and he is telling Erik how blissfully enslaved he is with every dirty moan. Erik is starting to look wrecked. Charles aches to mend him and dash him to pieces simultaneously. 

Instead, he rocks harder, then, pleads for Erik’s come. He leans back and grips a lean thigh with one slippery hand, and Erik disperses, letting out a lost sounding cry.

“Erik,” rasps Charles, wrapping his shivering arms around Erik’s neck and dovetailing their bodies together.

“It’s ok, Charles, stay here,” Erik says, holding the pale back firmly with one hand and refusing to release the cocoa brown hair with his other.

Their bodies are chilled and goose bumped by the time they reluctantly tear apart.

 

At the stadium the next morning, when they are signing Erik in, an official recognizes Charles from nine years previous. 

“Mr Xavier, you’re back. Fantastic, I can’t wait to see you fence. But I thought you were a sabreur. This is foils.” 

“I’m not here to fence, Sir, I’m here to support Erik,” Charles insists, and gets to see disappointment blatant on the man’s face. 

“Yay,” he says to Erik, sarcastically, as they move away from the official, “goodness, that was fun.”

“It’s not your job to please him, Charles, it’s not your job to please anyone,” Erik tells him, sternly, and leads the way to the changing room. 

“Charles, you never told me you were a sabreur,” Erik says, as Charles assists him into his whites. “Now I’m doubly embarrassed you can beat me fencing foils.”

“I started with foils and did it for ages, and, when I got spotted as a match for sabres, I didn’t give up foils straight away. I mostly trained with foils,” Charles explains, a bit desperately.

Erik stops putting his shoe on and turns to Charles. “You must know I said that lightly. I’m a ‘social’ fencer. I started too late and I’m almost too old to compete seriously now. There was never any way I could be on your level.” He cups Charles on the back of the neck and says, “The real question is, how good a cheerleader are you?” 

Charles laughs, and Erik grins at him so wide his nose wrinkles.

Charles is a great support person. He huddles on the bleachers with hot chocolate and cookies, gasping as the fencers engage, or calling encouragement when they are off the piste. When Erik scores a point or executes a clever riposte, Charles has jolts of warming pride. He remembers each cut, parry and feint and can rehash the entire bout when Erik joins him. 

He finds that he is really enjoying himself. Charles loves fencing; he loves a lot of things. He can’t do everything he likes, though, so he has to let most things go. Now, watching Erik, he is enjoying something he loves and, for the first time, not being compelled or feeling compelled to join in. 

Also, Erik looks fucking hot when he’s fencing.

After Erik graduates out of the first pool, he climbs the bleachers to Charles accompanied by a red head boy.

Charles sticks his hand out, introduces himself while raising an eyebrow at Erik.

His boyfriend explains, “This is Sean, he’s a free runner here in Boston.” Sean and Charles slap hands and jerk their chins at each other. Erik rolls his eyes, then says, “Thought you might like to run some new terrain.”

Charles’ face illuminates, but he says stoically, “But, I’m here to support you, darling.”

“Yeah, that was a bit of an excuse actually. Besides you’ll probably be back by my next turn on the piste.”

“What will you do?”

“I will watch people fence,” Erik squeezes Charles by the shoulder. “Go, have fun. There’s some trackies and your trainers in my equipment bag. And a hoodie, its cold out.”

“Ugh, you’re the best, Erik Lehnsherr.” He watches Erik bite his lip to keep things unsaid, says, “See you later,” and follows Sean. 

The entire run is exhilarating. Sean leads him all over the area, local to the hotel and stadium, with two other runners. Charles has to think precisely and rapidly to keep up over unfamiliar obstacles. They are keeping a slightly slower pace, for Charles, and to accommodate the rain slicked streets. Charles gets glimpses, like snapshots, of the others pulling off moves. He is breathless from running and breathless from the thrilling tiny pauses in time when he’s flying or landed well. Charles laughs out loud as he launches off a hydrant after Sean, stretching his arms up to heaven.

Eventually, he parts with his new friends, they’ve swopped numbers, and returns to Erik. 

Erik is eliminated after his next bout, and Charles queries, “Do you want to stay to watch or shall we go back to the room?” 

Erik says, “We should go back, but we can’t have sex. I have plans and you know how sleepy I get after I come.”

“What plans?” Charles loves intrigue. Erik just looks smug and walks to the hotel.

Once changed, they wander down the road to a restaurant. Charles, quickly scanning the menu, says, “There’s nothing much on here for you, Erik, let’s find somewhere else.”

“Did you even read the menu to see if you would like it? Or just take note of items I could eat?” Erik asks. 

Charles is caught out, he hopes the soft lighting in the restaurant is hiding his sudden flush. 

Erik says, “I spotted ten different things you might like and plenty for me.”

“Alright, but the aim is compromise, not abdication,” grumbles Charles, then orders three courses and various bottles of wine.

“Why are you ordering coffee?” he asks, after a long satisfying meal.

“Need to keep awake,” says Erik, not actually answering the question.

Charles puts the check on his card when Erik is in the bathroom, but Erik just says, “Thank you, Charles,” when he is informed of the payment. Erik is starting to be android perfect; Charles kind of wants to laugh but doesn’t actually think it’s funny.

They take a taxi which drops them off near a queue for a club. Sean is waiting outside. Erik’s earlier insistence that Charles was fine to wear his jeans starts to make sense. Charles is flabbergasted to hear some head pounding dub step surging up the stairs of the club as they descend.

“You’re going to hate this,” he shouts at Erik.

Erik looks like he already hates it, and he looks like a bouncer not a patron, but Charles can tell it would be impossible to talk him out of it.

It’s pretty early; they can still move around reasonably well. Charles would normally be dropping about now but his straight boyfriend would not have thought about that. Charles giggles, thinking, ‘My straight, gay boyfriend,’ then, ‘maybe I’m more buzzed from all the wine than I thought.’ He goes to the bar and has the bartender line up copious shots. He can get drunk at least. 

Sean is buying water. Charles practically goes on point, like a setter. Maybe he shouldn’t, he’s with Erik and Erik won’t approve, but he’s pretty sure he loves Erik and shouldn’t be dishonest about who he is. Sean yells in his ear, “I’m gonna drop, want some?” Charles nods, decision made, and indicates the row of shots. The three men and the bartender down their tequila and then Sean leads them to some couches. Charles just tows Erik along, figuring it’ll be slightly quieter there. 

When they are crammed onto a two seater, Sean distributes. He yells at Erik, “D’ya want one?” 

Erik looks blank. Charles says, “We’re going to take E, are you alright with that?” Erik nods vaguely, clearly shocked, and Sean misinterprets this acquiescence and puts a pill in Erik’s hand. As Erik brings his hand to his mouth, Charles yells, “Don’t, if you don’t want to.” Erik just stares him down and pops the pill in. 

“Keep it under your tongue,” Charles advises, “as long as you can.” Then he takes both Sean and Erik’s hands and sits back on the couch.

“What’s that Sean calls you?” Erik asks.

“Prox. Short for Professor Xavier.”

“What do you do, Sean?” yells Erik.

“Sound engineering,” Sean calls back.

After a while, Charles starts to get melty and charged at the same time. He can tell Sean, tapping his fingers on Charles’ hand, is starting to feel good too. He says in Sean’s ear. “Let’s help Erik out; it’s his first time.” Sean nods.

They switch up so Erik’s in the middle and Sean massages Erik’s shoulders and Charles traces light patterns on the inside of Erik’s forearms with his fingertips, looking him in the eye the whole time. This makes Charles feel so damn good he has to roll his head around a little, then he kisses the inside of Erik’s wrists. By the time he notices Erik’s hands are rubbing repeatedly thumb over fingers, he’s so full of luscious feeling, he’s going to burst. He leaps up; Sean too. They grip Erik and weave into the throng of dancing bodies until the bass takes over Charles’ movement. He has just enough thought left to check for Erik, but he’s fine, bobbing around happily, so Charles lets go.

He’s a puppet to the DJ, who drops him down, builds him up, then releases him into frantic, unthinking movement. Charles’ churning brain is switched off and he’s running on pulses of good feeling. Soon, his skin is slick with sweat and the glints of colored lights. A couple of girls try to approach him but Charles is in his own world and doesn’t notice their approach or his tall, scary man leaning over them until they scurry off.

Sean hands him the water bottle, which he swigs from. Erik has been swaying with his eyes closed and shakes his head when Charles tries to give him water. “You have to,” Charles yells, so Erik drinks. 

Charles passes Sean the water and enfolds him in a hug. They feel like the same person for a minute. 

Charles looks for Erik and it seems as if there is a spotlight on him, or a halo. It’s a divine order to snog that man, immediately. Normally, kissing Erik affects him all over in one glorious pulse, but now he can sense the other bodies around them, the lights permeating his eyelids, the floor through his shoes, the rasp of Erik’s tongue and the capacity of life, each thing singled out but existing simultaneously. 

Erik is ready to chill out and Charles takes him back to the couches. There is one spot available, so Charles sits on Erik. They start a raised voice, yelling in ears conversation, peppered with “What?” and repetition. “We can do it, Charles, we can make this work. I should be living with you, doing more with you not less.” Charles, bolstered on chemicals, agrees, “Then I can fuck you whenever I want!” The person next to them moves away, Charles remembers they’re not in a gay club but thinks, ‘Fuck you,’ and kisses Erik anyway.

Charles can’t sit still for long, not in his right mind or in this one. He heads back to the floor. There are less people now and they’re leaving space around Sean and Charles, who have started to move expansively and aggressively. Charles is lost to himself, no idea who is next to him, only aware of the music spilling from the centre of him, telling him to move this arm, bend that leg. He’s boiled down to stimulus and response.

Sean and a water bottle register and, as he swallows some liquid, Sean says, “That man loves you,” and points to Erik on the mezz area, leaning on the barrier, guarding Charles with his worshipful intent. Charles waves. Erik waves back. Sean says, “He just told me, he’s your knight and you’re his King.” Charles’ delight bursts out of him in wild laughter. Sean joins in and they lean on each other.

“I’m gonna take him home now,” says Charles, “the sex should be amazing.”

“I can help with that,” says Sean. Then, “Not like that, gross! But here...” He slips Charles a joint, “Should eke your high out a bit.”

Charles hugs him. “Thank you. Come visit?”

“Def, Prox.”

Charles collects Erik from the balcony, “Home time.” They leave and walk gingerly in the cold, real world until a cab encases them again for the trip back to the hotel.

Inside the room, Charles strips down to his jeans and lights up. Erik is looking lost so Charles pushes him onto the bed and straddles him. “Here baby, have some. I’ll take care of you. I’m about to make you feel amazing.” And Erik, his pledged sword, reaches up and takes more drugs. ‘For me,’ Charles realizes, with a spike of uneasiness. ‘I had better be worth his life.’ 

“Wait here a sec,” he says out loud and goes to find a saucer and to play some Thelonious Monk off Erik’s iPod. He disposes of all his clothes and, when he reaches Erik, he begins to peel his man, latching onto each newly exposed limb or flank with his lips, teeth and freshly understood dedication. Every stretch of Erik is a gift and Charles, who has never been able to shut himself up during sex, starts murmuring, “thank you, thank you, thank you,” and, in one absurd moment, “it’s just what I wanted,” after which he falls back laughing.

Erik decides it’s his turn and begins his own expedition, Charles swearing as pinpoint sensations flare under his skin. When Erik starts to lick his cock, Charles says, “Let me at yours,” and their mutual blow job ends in almost synchronized orgasms. 

“Can you sleep yet?” Charles asks, curled on his favorite spot on Erik’s pec. 

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I hope you booked a late check out; I do not think I can be awake in time.” He is sliding his fingers in between Erik’s and back out again.

“I figured.”

“I’m going to order some food. Then we should have a bath.”

“‘kay,” says Erik, not budging. Charles understands all about being boneless with a still racing mind.

After the call down to the kitchen, Charles lies back down but with his knees against Erik’s shoulder and his arm braced over Erik’s knees. “Are you really alright?” he asks, “I mean, no regrets?”

“I... don’t know if I’ll ever do it again... but no regrets.”

“Really?” Charles queries, hopefully.

“Really,” Erik tells him, “You’re my bacon wrapped unicorn.”

“UUUhh?”

Erik explains what Emma said. Charles is wide eyed, groaning, “Ohhh, you eating me in front of people...” His hand is gripping Erik’s thigh.

“Yes, that’s where I went with it,” agrees Erik, and starts something that has Charles embarrassingly hard when the room service arrives.

“Dammit, why don’t I own baggy pants,” grumbles Charles pulling on jeans so tight they are almost worthless for coverage. Luckily, the porter clearly appreciates the view. Charles winks at him and he blushes, but looks again anyway.

Charles waits until Erik is eating before he says, cautiously, “Thanks for the last few days, Erik.”

“But...?” questions Erik, putting his fork down.

“I think you... we... should be a bit more careful in the future...”

“... About what?”

Charles rubs a finger tip over Erik’s knuckle, needing to hang on in some way in case his words propel Erik somewhere he doesn’t intend. “I think we can find things to do together that don’t compromise you so much. I shouldn’t have let you... tonight, it’s not like you to break laws, go to clubs...”

“It’s good to try new things,” Erik says, defensively.

“Yeah, but within your own parameters, or moral guidelines, rather.”

“You try new things all the time,” Erik protests, though Charles can sense some agreement.

Charles smiles, depreciatingly, “Yes, I do, but I don’t have a static sense of self.”

“You’ll get bored,” says Erik, flipping his hand over to clutch at Charles’ wrist, revealing, in the swift movement, his underlying fear. 

Charles says, as gently as possible, “I might, if you’re not being yourself. I want the Erik who looks appalled when I’m bad and argues about money and... I need that Erik.”

“Why would you need him?”

“I don’t want to date me. Quite frankly, I don’t know how you do it.” Charles smiles, points to his hair, “Also, head quiet, remember.” 

“I just wanted... Raven said... I was trying to give instead of take from you.”

Charles skirts around the table and pulls Erik into a hug. “It was really good, I loved all of it except the bit where you stopped being you. I will accept cheeseburgers and any other buildings you can arrange for running in, I’ll cheerlead for you and... you’ve been converted to kung fu films now, right?”

There is a tiny version of a smile occurring at the corner of Erik’s mouth. Charles kisses it and hugs Erik like he can tuck him into his heart if he just squeezes hard enough.

They reapply themselves to their food and, with full stomachs, immerse themselves in a hot and glorious bath. Erik is drowsy. They are facing each other, legs tangled. Charles is no longer out of it, just the peripheral haziness from lack of sleep and a kind of bass beat background noise in the recesses of his brain.

“I have the best time with you,” says Charles, his hand curling under Erik’s knee.

“That’s how I feel,” replies Erik, opening one eye.

“Do you really think you could live with me?”

Erik shifts one of his feet to rest under Charles’ buttock. “I hate some of your music. Especially the punk.”

“But I have earphones.”

“We’d have to sometimes eat separately so you don’t have to eat my food all the time.”

“I don’t. I eat whatever I like at lunch.” He waves a hand, “That’s not even anything by the time we’ve eaten out a couple of times and training gets in the way of eating together.”

There is a pause and Charles says, “Raven and Cain and my friends come over and get a bit raucous, but not too often.”

“You’d have to stop leaving your damn wet towel on my side of the bed.”

Charles starts laughing, “Is this really all we can come up with, even though we are the two most different people in fucking ever?”

“We are different, but we love each other. Oh God, sorry, I said I wouldn’t say that again ‘til you were ready... Sorry... are you going to...?”

“Hey dorkasaurus,” Charles interrupts, “when you move in with me, I won’t be able to use your terrace anymore.”

“Yes, actually, you will. I promised Az the apartment if I ever moved out, and he’ll let you do anything.”

“Will you bring your sofa? I’m kind of fond of it.” Charles associates bending Erik over the back of it, and Erik’s torso arching off the cushions with his hands tied tight to the wooden arm rest, and Erik’s face, framed by the sofa fabric and Charles’ thighs, disappearing and reappearing the length of Charles’ cock like a magic trick on replay.

“Sure, Charles.”

“It’s time to get out, sleepy baby.”

“Hmm, don’t call me baby.”

They collapse into bed. Charles isn’t even properly dry, which would have pissed Erik off, only he’s already asleep.


	6. Holidays.

As it turns out, Az can’t get out of his place to take over Erik’s apartment for a few months, until after the holidays and after Charles’ birthday.

There are logistics to work out, most of the objections put forward by Erik, once he is no longer under the influence of drugs and Charles’ muscled legs pressed against him, and most of them involving money and Erik’s possessions. Charles gets plenty of exercise for his eyeballs as they roll up repeatedly in exasperation. Erik repeats his argument, “I can’t afford to live in your apartment, Charles. I assume this because you won’t say how much it is.”

“It costs me nothing, nothing of my personal income or trust fund; it’s all covered by other investments. Anything you decide to pay for it will be nominal and I want you to consider not paying for it at all.” Charles has Erik caged in a hug. “I have money, and I’m not moving apartments because you can’t love me despite that.”

Erik is silent; Charles can tell the point penetrated. 

Charles keeps clearing space in his wardrobe, his storage cage and his bookshelves, funneling some items out to the house and others off to goodwill. He instigates an exchange of spare keys. He is keeping faith by steady action.

Meanwhile, Erik is being pestered by Charles’ constant queries about Hanukkah. Each question flays him raw a little more, pushes into a part of himself that is usually hidden away. After a week, about to snap, he, suddenly, recognizes the desperate light in Charles’ eye and breathes out. 

It occurs to Erik that Charles is just trying to avoid letting him down and a comforting heat begins to infuse inside him. He seats Charles on the sofa, feet nestled on Erik’s lap, and talks. 

He tells Charles history and traditions and beliefs and meanings. He slips into Hebrew, then translates. He shares his personal history, his memories. Charles listens avidly, the weird, Erik still isn’t used to it, worshipful expression fixed on his face and adorned by his freckles. It is bizarre for Erik not to be interrupted before he has exhausted a subject he is actually interested in. His workmates think he is boring because he is either silent or overly effusive on a topic they don’t care about; he, in turn, isn’t remotely interested in the Kardashian’s sex life or any other version of water cooler small talk. Charles listens, and he has a brain, curious and clever enough, to process anything Erik bombards him with.

And Charles loves him. Erik knows it now, though Charles doesn’t say it, Erik knows it like he knows the sofa is brown.

Eventually, Erik runs out of things to say and he looks at Charles, surprised. Charles says, “Thank you,” and Erik says, sincerely, “Thank you for listening,” and they sit on the brown sofa smiling at each other goofily.

The beginning of Hanukkah coincides with ThanksGiving this year and they choose to celebrate with Anna Marie, a Xavier family friend, so Charles can see his siblings. Raven is inside when they enter the house. She is unable to let an occasion slide with out dressing up somewhat and forces Erik into a cockle hat and Charles into a fairly accurate Wampanoag apron. Raven herself is completely transformed, Erik wouldn’t recognize her except for the silver and pearl bracelet peeking out of her right sleeve.

They make their rounds, greeting the host, Cain and the guests. 

“Oh no,” notes Raven, “Charles is in his bouncy puppy mood.”

She means her brother is teetering on the balls of his feet, squeezing peoples arms lovingly and barking out laughs. He is dashing from person to person, almost wriggling with excitement and, sporadically, pushing Erik into corners or hallways to kiss him until Erik is gasping or rocking his hips reactively, or clutching at Charles shirt collar. 

Raven says, “For God’s sake, Charles, can’t you leave him alone for five minutes. He looks dizzy.”

“I’m ok,” says Erik, not particularly convincingly.

“I’m just celebrating English colonist, Wampanoag relations,” contributes Charles, rubbing Erik’s ass cheek in a circular motion which convinces a growl to evade Erik’s control and skulk out of him.

“Don’t be crass,” retorts Raven.

“Says the woman dressed like a turkey,” Charles snipes, at which point Erik is thankful to be called to the table. 

He is beginning to fear the Xavier family Christmas.

 

As it stands, Erik barely remembers Christmas. It seems to consist of drinking constantly, from Mimosa at breakfast through to Eggnog before bed, and extremely competitive contests between Raven, Cain and Charles, punctuated by shouting and insults. 

There is a race to climb a tall tree outside the Westchester house, to be first to deliver a star to the top. Charles wins, so his blue star will stay there this week. 

There is a Christmas song, or carol, sing off, to decide who gets to put the Santa hat on and distribute presents. Cain’s drag burlesque version of All I Want For Christmas Is You is unanimously applauded the winner. 

Their Christmas outfits are judged, the winner getting their presents first and determining the order in which everyone else receives their gifts. Raven wins. Her halter neck dress is green and fluffy; it flips out at the bottom and is strung with a plethora of sparkly things and actual popcorn. Her golden hair is spiked into a star shape. Charles pretends to climb her and Cain keeps placing wrapped presents under her as she attempts to sit down. 

Even simple cracker pulling is as regimented and serious as an Olympic fencing bout.

After a ridiculously obese turkey and excessive bottles of wine, they play a vicious drunken game of football and, then, piggyback polo. Erik and Raven are no match for Cain and Charles who have been beating anyone they can challenge for years; but Erik fares better when Charles carries him and he just has to swing a mallet rather than attempt to run without wobbling.

When they give up and return inside, they are served brandy spiked hot cocoa to warm them up and are allowed to tear pieces off the gingerbread house. Erik is so drunk he gobbles popcorn directly off Raven’s dress, before he realizes that’s not appropriate. The others don’t seem to mind, or notice, however.

“Oh no,” Erik groans, fat, nauseated, with his head spinning, “can I skip this next year?”

“You’ll build up stamina for it,” promises Charles. They are under the quilts in Charles’ room, although Erik thinks he may have to puke before he can sleep. “Besides,” adds Charles, “wait ‘til tomorrow. Guess why it’s called Boxing Day.”

“Hopefully, because I get to select my coffin and lie peacefully in it all day.”

“No,” the ‘silly Erik’ is implied in the admonishing tone.

“Because I’ll be so hungover, I’ll look like a hobo and end up living in a box on the street in White Plains?”

“No. We have lots of different sorts of boxing matches,” Charles announces, as if that’s good news, “and we get to drink a box of beer.” 

Erik groans some more and curls into foetal position.

“But that’s after we take the truck to the mission with boxes of leftover food and boxes of our old toys, I mean gear, we don’t need anymore.”

“Oh... that’s nice. You do that every year?”

“I don’t even remember starting. When we were little we just had to pick two or three of last years toys and add them to the box, then help take it all down to the mission. Mum thought, seeing people who really needed food and were grateful for second hand toys would help curb our greater excesses.”

Erik is silent.

“Nothing like your traditions, Erik,” Charles says, apologetically.

“It’s a good tradition,” says Erik, and thinks maybe he doesn’t need to puke after all. 

He is wrong.

 

On the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, Erik takes a train out to visit the simple bleached stone that marks his parent’s final bed. This is his tradition: sit with them, update them since his last visit, tell them his goals for the New Year. Last visit, his mom’s birthday, he had recently met Charles and was asking asking permission to give Raven a bracelet. Now, he is telling them about moving in and how much he needs to be with Charles; defending the young man’s age, “... but he knows so much, he seems older than me sometimes,” and describing all of his boyfriend’s different smiles, “...and there’s a one sided smile, like a smirk, but too much love in it to be smug.”

It is bitter cold; Erik has layers on but won’t last outside long. He touches the head stone in farewell and is walking through the gates when he spots a tiny figure down the block; he recognizes the set of the beret on stark white hair across fifteen years. 

“Mrs Munroe!” he calls, slipping slightly on the icy ground as he hurries to reach her.

“Erik!” says the elderly lady, her face lighting up, “Erik Lehnsherr.”

He gets to her and hugs her, the woman who minded him after school while his mom worked and who fought to keep him after his parents were killed, losing out to Shaw for reasons unfathomable to a fourteen year old.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you,” she says, when he lets her go.

“It’s good to see you too, Mrs Munroe.”

“You’re probably old enough to call me Ororo now Erik.”

“I’ll try.”

“Visiting your folks?” she asks.

“Yeah, every New Year’s Eve. It’s a habit.”

“Oh,” Mrs Munroe says, tipping her head, “I want to ask you how you are and all about your life but it’s too cold to be outdoors for it, and I don’t suppose you’d want to come for tea with me on New Year’s Eve?”

“I’d love to. I’ll just need to call someone.”

“A special someone?” asks Mrs Munroe, with the enraptured expression of the very invested.

“Yes,” Erik says, following her to the bus stop, “very special.”

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be with your someone special this evening?”

“He has a company function. I was hoping to meet him by midnight.”

Mrs Munroe places a gentle hand on Erik’s arm, “You’re a homosexual, Erik?”

“Yes, Mrs Mu... Yes, Ororo.” He notices she is frowning, thinks, ‘I guess, different generation?’ He asks, “Does it bother you?” and wonders if how she feels will bother him.

“No, dear, if you’re happy.” She cups his cheek, “Just such a waste, you’d have made such handsome babies. You grew up very good looking.”

“Never mind, Mrs M, my boyfriend is a geneticist. He could probably clone me if you think it’s necessary.”

She chuckles, a warm sound like cookies fragrant from the oven, and links her arm with his, “I like this man of yours then, because you, little Erik, always had whimsy, but never such cheek. He must be a treasure to have influenced that in you.”

They catch a bus to her house, around the block from where Erik grew up. She feeds him soup, cocoa and cake, all the while coaxing information out of him about his job, the piano lessons, fencing... but mainly, Charles.

“We are very different but, for some reason, he seems to get something out of being with me and I am definitely a greater person for it. He’s smart, a genius, and so good looking, Mrs M, otherworldly, like... he can’t be human, he’s so good looking. And he makes me laugh... and he spoils me.” Here Erik frowns having reached his biggest source of discomfit. 

“What’s the frown for, little Erik?”

“I just... he’s really rich.”

“And?” she inquires, clearly confused.

He tells her about moving in and how he hates not being able to afford the rent or nice dinners and how all the money feels so insulting to the parents who worked long hours to raise him.

She asks, “If he lost all the money tomorrow, would you still love him?”

“Of course.”

“Then money should not interfere with the relationship between you and him.”

“But aren’t I a failure, not a proper man, if I have to live off my partner?”

“Erik, you’re being a snob and a misogynist. Suggesting that women, that your mother and I for example, can live off their partners, but you can’t because you’re better.”

“No more like... um, I worked really hard to get where I am. No one will notice that if I’m being supported.”

“You’ve lost faith, Erik,” Ororo says, patting his hand. “There’s a reason you were born gay and a reason he was born rich and why you were brought together.” She lets that sink in. 

After a few minutes thought, Erik asks, “Are you saying I don’t have a choice?” 

“No dear, but why would you choose an outdated principle over love?”

He blinks at her. “That’s why you’re my favorite sitter, Mrs M. You set me straight, while happily insulting me, but without actually hurting my feelings.”

Mrs Munroe begins to gather up the dishes and Erik rushes to help. She says, thoughtfully, “You could view it all as an opportunity. Who have you always wanted to help but haven’t had the money?”

They hand wash and dry the dishes together, but as Erik is putting them into cupboards as per Ororo’s direction, she gasps and hunches over, draining of color. Erik eases her into a kitchen chair rapidly. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, patting her hair and shoulders, as if he can feel an illness through his palms.

“I’m old, Erik, no need to fuss.”

“Shall I take you to a doctor?”

“No, definitely not.”

“Is someone coming home soon?”

“Tessa, one of my former foster children, do you remember? But not until after midnight. I’ll be fine, Erik.”

“Ok,” says Erik, “um, but do you have time for a game of chess?”

“Lovely,” Ororo replies, not at all fooled.

“You set up, while I call Charles,” Erik suggests, but is only able to leave a message on Charles’ phone.

Erik sits down to play chess and wipes the floor with the sweet old lady.

“Goodness dear, you’ve gotten good.”

“I have to be to play Charles, I seldom win against him.”

Eventually, Erik convinces Ororo to retire for the night, promising to let himself out, with no intention of doing so. She eyes him, but capitulates, hugging him and inviting him to bring Charles out for a visit. Erik reads her familiar but beautiful picture books about Kenya until Tessa comes home shortly before one.

“Hi, who are you? Is mom alright?” Tessa asks, panic flashing across her face.

“She’s fine, just had a little turn, I was visiting for tea but I didn’t want to leave her alone like that. I’m Erik, do you remember? You were six or seven when I was here, being minded after school.”

“You speak German and play chess,” she remembers. “I wish she’d rung me.”

Erik laughs, “I had to bully her into letting me stick around.”

She smiles, “I bet.” Tessa steps forward and hesitantly hugs Erik. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Erik leaves her and walks to the closest train station, breath curling up to cap his head.

When he opens the door to his apartment, he can tell immediately that Charles is there. He never leaves the kitchen light on and the soul gestating aroma of Charles’ bean cassoulet is permeating the room.

“Charles?” he calls, hanging his coat and kicking off his shoes. 

Charles comes out from the bedroom, shaggy haired and wearing Erik’s university sweats. The sleeves and pant legs are rolled up a few times. “Hey baby,” he says, stretching. “I tried to stay up.”

“Why aren’t you at one of the New Year parties?” asks Erik, before effectively preventing an answer by thoroughly kissing the adorable, tousled man.

Charles kisses him back, eagerly, lifting one leg in a sleepy attempt to climb Erik. Once detached, he shrugs, “I did my duty at the Xavier Corp thing, got your message, thank you, then met Raven for the countdown. Then, I just kept thinking how cold you’d be and I wanted to make sure you were fed.”

“You’re aware I can cook, aren’t you?” queries Erik, chuckling and edging his hands under Charles’, or his, sweatshirt.

“Fuck, cold hands,” protests Charles, twisting away. “Hmmm, but, can you cook my world famous cassoulet?”

“No, that is your gift to humankind,” agrees Erik. Charles had been famous amongst friends, family and most of Oxford for his chicken cassoulet until a couple of months ago when he adjusted it for Erik. Everyone swears the new vegetarian recipe is better than the original. Erik can’t compare, but he did have to resist proposing the first time Charles made it.

“Want to eat now?” the chef wants to know.

“Soon,” soothes Erik, nibbling delicacies of the milky white neck variety. “Help me work up an appetite?”

Charles is fidgeting. Erik stops, pulls away and takes a good look at Charles, who appears to be dithering. 

“Are you... do you not want to?” Erik asks, incredulously. Charles is always up for it.

“I really do,” gasps Charles, “but then you’ll go to sleep and you won’t eat.”

Erik laughs, while Charles wavers. His talk with Mrs Munroe, and the taste of the man he loves, have combined to dissolve a weight for Erik, he hadn’t even known he was carrying. “Poor Charles,” he says, hauling his luscious professor flat against him, “caught between a rock and a hard place.” He thrusts a burgeoning hard place into Charles’ belly, laughing again when Charles’ eyes darken several shades.

“Oh shit,” manages Charles. He tackles Erik onto the sofa, and says, “It isn’t the proper overnight version of my cassoulet anyway, so it’ll probably be disappointing.”

Erik is laughing into Charles’ hair. “Alright,” says Charles, pretending exasperation, “say it.”

“I’ll give you the overnight version...”

“You had better,” threatens Charles.

Later, they are snuggled under the blankets in bed. Dawn noises and grey morning light filter into their haven, Erik having fulfilled his aim of all night sex.

Charles says, “New Years resolutions?”

Erik ponders. All the goals he recited to his parents seem grimy in the glow of his new perspective. “I was thinking on the train home,” he starts, watching the sun come up through the strands of Charles’ hair, “if you’re serious about my not having to pay for the apartment, I could put my former rent money into some sort of program, so kids in my old neighborhood can learn music.”

“This is what will make you feel better about living in my... our expensive apartment?”

“Yes,” says Erik firmly.

Charles kisses him. “You’re amazing, Erik Lehnsherr. I’d never have thought of it but, if you’re going to run a program, maybe Alex and I could teach kids, and the elderly, parkour.”

“The elderly?”

“Oh yes, they don’t do rooftops or somersaults or anything, but it’s great for keeping the mind and body going.”

Erik thinks of Ororo and asks, “Would you really?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re amazing too.”

They fall asleep, noses together, and the cassoulet is just as heartening when they venture out of bed in the afternoon.

 

 

“It’s my birthday next month, Jean, will you come to my party?” Charles asks, while submitting to his weekly cheek pinching.

“We should talk about that Charles, I have plans,” says Erik. 

“Plans that don’t involve old women, I bet. Now, let’s see if Erik practiced this week.”

“Yes, he practiced all week. I can sing the whole piece.”

Jean sighs, “You and your lovely voice, child. You will sing at my funeral or I’ll come back and haunt you.”

“Well, I have decades to worry about it, Jean. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Charles is preparing a Dal Makhani but he is carelessly substituting ingredients. He’s thinking of having a party at the apartment or at the house and wondering if Raven will help plan it. This year, he wants a to make a big deal of his birthday. This year, Charles acknowledges he has a right to celebrate being alive another year and not the ‘Why me, not her?’ mystery which has always pervaded previous birthdays. This year, he knows why; Erik was waiting. 

Or maybe, this year, he’s been reading too many of Erik’s fucking books. 

Charles dips a spoon into the curry and tastes. Done. He starts taking things out to the table and places the madeira cupcakes he made earlier on a plate, sealing four in a box for Jean and her bridge buddies. He can hear the lesson concluding and tries to be derisive about that overwhelming destiny thought from earlier, but it is seeping in and weighing him down like water in denim, until he can’t see the surface anymore. 

As soon as Erik gets up from the piano stool, Charles beelines over, slots under his arm, and sticks, as if Erik is the rock and Charles the limpet. Charles can barely rustle up a farewell for Jean and only just recalls the cupcakes in time, all from the safe spot, tucked up under Erik’s wing. 

When the door clicks behind the teacher, Erik shifts his hold on Charles and asks, “Something wrong?” Charles has no answer, but thinks maybe if he kisses his boyfriend he won’t cry, and it works, in a thigh on thigh, panting, hands down waistbands kind of way. 

Charles never asks to be fucked. Tonight, though, he needs to be possessed. He tries not to beg, at least, but probably Erik hears the demand for what it really is. 

Erik is never cavalier with Charles; intense, direct, rough, even slightly out of control sometimes, but always Charles is precious in his hands. Erik curls around Charles, spooning, and supporting his head with one arm. His other hand cups the hip. Charles, silent for once, rocks back, hoping to fuck away the urge to run. Just as he thinks, ‘Fuck, I can’t do this,’ Erik says into his hair, “Charles, need you, God, need this, please Charles, need you love, say something, please.” Charles takes Erik’s hand, bites it and snaps, “Come in me now, right fucking now,” and Erik does, clutching Charles, kissing his head, ear, shoulders. Charles finds the justification he needs, in being needed, and reclaims some control. His cock celebrates by spouting off like a Roman candle in Erik’s large hand. Erik props himself up to reach Charles’ mouth for his post come connection kiss.

“Ok?” Erik’s eyes are bright in the gloom. He is pulling out and rolling Charles to face him.

Charles’ hand reaches out, secures Erik’s jaw. “You’re mine, Erik Lehnsherr,” his voice wobbles just a little.

“Yes,” says Erik.

Charles says, “I want to have a massive birthday party.”

Erik sighs, relieved Charles has come back to himself, “How big? Because I have a really huge idea. I tried to save up to do it as a surprise but then Raven said you didn’t usually do much...”

“That would be awesome. A big surprise. I’ll transfer the funds so you don’t have to tell me anything, yes?”

“Ok.”

“Thank you, Erik.”

“Do you want tell me what happened tonight?”

“No.”

A pause, “Can dinner be saved?”

“Yes, I’m going to shower. Just reheat, and don’t wait for me if you’re hungry.”

Erik rolls his eyes, “I’ll wait.” Charles knows that’s true more than Erik does.

 

Erik makes him take a day off work for his birthday. Moira is ecstatic. On Friday morning, surrounded by clothes and suitcases, Charles gets a text from Alex about a new run.

“We have time,” says Erik, so Charles wastes none meeting Alex.

Soon, Charles is running. Alex is leading, he’s taking Charles on a great rooftop route. Charles follows Alex round an old water tank with a big C painted on it, then as Alex leaps over a knee high barrier, Charles steps on it to launch off and crows in delight mid air. They jump to a new building, Alex veers to the right past a built in foot locker stenciled with a red FX. Charles stumbles, looks back, shakes his head and keeps up. 

Alex drops over the side of the building using a fire escape. Charles copies him. Alex is a level down and Charles hears him yell, “In here.” He has crawled into a narrow window; Charles has to wriggle in. He can clearly see, as he drags his legs through the space, a piece of paper tacked to the wall. It has a drawing of a unicorn with a bacon belt.

“Alex! What’s going on?”

“Come on!” comes the impatient shout. “Nearly there.”

Charles runs down the hallway, follows Alex down two flights of stairs. Then Alex dives straight over a balcony. Charles puts one hand on the barrier and vaults over, legs to one side. As he looks at the floor to judge his landing, he can see the massive duct tape words, Marry me, and a kind of square question mark. He lands, touches the duct tape with shaking fingers.

“See ya, Prof,” says Alex, disappearing onto the street.

“So?” asks Erik, from right behind Charles, “Will you? Marry me?”

Charles turns and says with snowballing volume, “That.. was.. awesome!” He throws himself at Erik, kissing him and laughing at the same time, “and fuck yes!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot has overpowered the porn... sorry.


	7. Charles has a birthday.

Erik is playing with the expressive corners of Charles’ mouth, and Charles keeps chasing the fingers and nibbling them. He’s been even more smoochy than usual during the flight and cab rides. Now, they are checked into a tiny motel in a small town. Charles’ attention is fluctuating wildly between the possibilities of his birthday surprise, the patches of Erik’s skin which are tempting him to taste and the overwhelming gurgles of excitement when he recalls he is an engaged man.

“I need to call mum!” he shouts, “and Raven,” he adds whipping his phone out.

“Or,” suggests Erik, restraining Charles from dialing, “we can announce it at your party.”

“Well, at least Raven,” Charles’ smile is canyon wide.

“Charles?” 

He looks up.

“I just have to address... you’re very young. We can be engaged for a few years.”

Charles, if possible, smiles harder. “Erik darling, what do you think marriage is that it is so different from now? We still have to try hard, compromise, talk about stuff when we don’t want to, fuck a lot. You just think I’ll want to back out, like I said yes, but I meant maybe.”

“Fuck yes, is what, I think, you actually said.”

“When I marry you,” Charles says, sounding very British, “everyone will know you’re mine.” He adds, gleefully, “Including the law, so you can’t testify against me when I finally go bonkers and kill Moira. And you’ll own a fuck ton of property...”

“Oh God, I forgot about that.”

“And make medical decisions, if I fall off a building...” 

“... What?”

“And we get a honeymoon. I want to dive at the Great Barrier Reef... or trek the volcanoes in Iceland!”

“Of course you do,” says Erik, faintly.

“So when you think about it, being married changes virtually nothing for me apart from being happier. It’s you and everyone’s perception of you that will be altered.” He smirks, “Forever.” He then suggests, “Maybe, it’s you who needs to wait?”

“Oh, I’m already altered. You’re kind of inevitable.”

“What a terrible fate I am,” says Charles, seductively, tugging Erik’s hair. “Are you sure I’m not a waste of your life?” He chews along Erik’s jaw, inching his shirt off, walking him back toward the bed.

Erik stops him, “Oh God,” he says horrified, “Am I a waste of yours?”

“I believe I just said,” snaps Charles, impatiently, unbuckling Erik’s belt, shoving him backwards. He yanks the pants down and away, says, “Anything else you’d like to panic about?” and sucks a raw mark on Erik’s hip.

Erik growls and says, “Do I have to hang out with Caroline and your mother now and do society matron type things?”

Charles laughs, “Please do that. It would the most amusing wine and lettuce lunch for a generation.” He kisses the inside of Erik’s leg before hooking it over his shoulder and licking his way around all the territory between that leg and the other. Erik’s desperate responses make Charles forget there is anything outside his tongue and the skin it’s scraping.

“Charles!”

“Yes baby, want me in you now?”

“Yes, no... yes but I’ve one more question. But please don’t laugh.”

Charles looks up to see Erik trying to hide behind his own hand. He crawls up the bed to cradle the embarrassed man’s shoulders. Erik is fascinatingly red. 

“What?” asks Charles, totally curious.

“What about your name, your line, your genes? I’m pretty sure I’ll go to hell if I deny the human race mini Charles Xaviers.”

Charles wants to laugh but was asked not to, so he resorts to kissing Erik to cover it up. “I don’t quite know how to respond to that. You are awesome, by the way.

“Alright firstly, even if I wasn’t a genetics professor this is not an insurmountable problem. Secondly, what about your genes? How amazing would little Erik’s be? Thirdly, do you even want kids? Fourthly, I need another decade before I seriously entertain this conversation. Lastly, if any mother fucker tries to drag you off to hell, I’ll kick their brimstone smelling ass back down there and they’ll never pick themselves up out of the ashes.”

Erik laughs and takes his hand fully away from his face. “I just want you to be sure. You’re not homosexual, you could have... what my parents had... damn! I sound like I’m not proud to be gay.” He growls. “Leftover Hebrew school.” 

Charles is starting to remember what it was like to bring home a 98% and be asked where the other 2% was. He says in a tiny voice, “You’re kind of inevitable too. Can you please stop trying to take back your proposal now?”

“My God, sorry. I would never take it back.” 

Charles is suddenly flipped and flattened, his clothes start mysteriously disappearing and he enters the unique view of his own body, as seen by Erik. He is aware of every inch of skin, each handful of hair. He watches his own leg emerge from his jeans as Erik strips him, admires the muscles of his own arm as it grabs the back of Erik’s neck. 

“Erik,” says Charles, stretching to allow greater access to the concave below his ribs. He waits, until Erik stops and looks up at him, before he holds out his wrists. They both know it means more than tie me up.

Erik hesitates in confusion, so Charles leans over the end of the bed and slides the belt out of Erik’s pants, letting them pool back on the floor. Erik’s eyes widen and he shakes his head, diving instead into his suitcase and pulling out a tie. “I was a scout for two years,” he says. 

It makes Charles laugh. 

He hopes Erik doesn’t notice how sweaty his hands are as the tie gets looped around each wrist and secures him to the edge of the headboard. He tips his head up and thinks, ‘I always liked that tie,’ then starts giggling. Erik is observing him, concerned, so he bites his lip and begins a catalogue of the best bits of the man he’s going to marry in an attempt to behave, in an attempt to remember who he is giving control to. There are the eyes, blue but steelier than his, the supple mouth, the delicious abs that need licking, the slim hips he loves to grip... suddenly, he is hard and not nervous and hot for Erik, ready to be putty. 

Erik is still frozen and worried. Charles wriggles, stretches against his bonds and twists his hips so his cock taps Erik on the knee. Erik shatters and pieces of him land all over Charles, hands on throat and nipple, teeth on ribs, knee shoving aside calf. Charles makes a noise somewhere between a moan and a squeak. Erik looks up and smiles, the sunrise grin which is larger than feasible and only Charles ever seems to see. Charles smiles back. They are in this together.

Then Erik’s smile mutates, becomes sly, and Charles whispers with trepidation, “Oh fuck.” 

Erik pulls back and starts to emulate Charles, brushing his hands over all Charles’ favorite places to touch. Charles starts to twitch. He tries to rub Erik with his foot, but the bloody tease of a man moves out of reach, spreads himself and adds lube to the torture. Charles’ swearing escalates.

Just as the begging in Charles’ head is about to escape out his mouth, Erik shifts them to a good angle and lets Charles get his mouth on Erik’s cock. ‘Thank fuck,’ thinks Charles, delirious with the onslaught of sensation. 

Eventually, Erik gives in to the big pleading eyes, moving to straddle and sink down, picking up a rhythm and riding a mess of what used to be Charles and is now merely a babble of fuck, fuck, Erik fuck, oh fuck.

Erik says, “Watch this Charles,” and rubs his own cock with both hands. Charles’ ass leaves the bed as he comes. Erik leans down to kiss him, just as Charles needs it, then continues to stroke himself until he comes, rubbing his cock up through the splats and dragging it across Charles’ mouth as he unknots the tie.

Charles freed, pounces on Erik to kiss him, hold him, closer than is technically comfortable, and ask, “Alright baby?”

“Yes,” assures Erik, panting, “but don’t call me baby.” 

 

“There will never be another birthday to match this one,” says Charles the next morning.

“Well, I can’t propose again next year,” says Erik dryly.

“What are we doing?”

“Patience Charles.”

They drive out of town in a rental van. Charles has control of the radio; Erik is repeating, "It’s his birthday it’s his birthday it’s his birthday," and grinding his teeth. As they pass a small town welcome sign, Charles wonders how they are grandly celebrating in a small town, far from his friends. Also, there is no one in town, no cars, no kids. It’s weird.

Erik stops outside a small school. Charles recognizes the group of people milling around in front. “Erik, I’m going running? That’s Alex and Remy... and Sean!” He leaps out of the car, hugs Sean, spinning him around. Then he greets everyone else. Erik hands him his trainers, and says, “I’ve got some more things to arrange. See you later, have fun.”

The other runners are hooting excitedly and stretching, so Charles puts on his trainers. 

“What is this place? Can we explore the school?” asks Charles.

“The whole town, bro, Erik hired the whole town! It’s for sale, there is only one family living here, so most of the buildings are unoccupied,” Alex explains. 

“Holy fuck!”

“Told you that man loves you,” from Sean.

“Let’s run boys.”

They start in the school, but it is a one story building and not much fun, so they run across the green to the main street, leaping off fence posts and rubbish bins. The sun catches them in flashes, as if nature herself wants to capture an image of each moment. Remy and Charles spend some time on the rooftops, and Sean and Alex co-ordinate tricks off the town square park benches. 

Charles slips off a fire escape and falls to his bum, air whooshing out of him. “Cher, don’t get hurt, your scary boyfriend will hurt me,” Remy says, hauling Charles to his feet.

They enter the town hall. It’s small but has a balcony level and a stage, both of which can be used for practice and copy cat dares. Remy discovers the tavern and Janos does a crazy slide from one end of the bar to the other, after which, everyone else has to try to better it.

Hours later, the van rolls up to take them all back to the motel. “We ‘spose to tell you, get dressed for a party,” Remy informs Charles.

“What sort?”

“Street party,” says Alex, “See you soon.”

Charles showers, dresses and pokes his nose out to see if he can find company. There is a large group of people, waiting for him. He rushes forward to greet Jean, his friends from Xavier Corp, and some colleagues. 

A bus pulls up and the driver ushers them on. Charles can’t keep to a seat, he keeps moving up and down the aisle greeting people. He convinces the driver to put the radio on and leads the dancing and singing along.

The bus pulls in to the same town as in the morning but it’s been transformed, the main street is strung with lights, there are long tables dripping with food and a stage in the town square.

“Holy fuck,” says Charles, repeating himself. “If this is what I get for my birthday, what the hell will the man pull off for our wedding!” 

The bus erupts with shouted queries and congratulations. “Shit, I wasn’t supposed to say anything yet. Act surprised later,” he instructs the bus passengers and rushes out into the spring afternoon looking for his hero.

“Your mother and Raven organized most of it,” Erik tells him when Charles finds him and yells, “This is amazing!”

Raven hugs Charles, “It was all Erik’s plan though.” 

There is a bus load of people already mingling with the new arrivals and a further load arrives thirty minutes later. Even Moira is there. Charles, buoyed on his great run, hugs her, notices Sean over her shoulder mouthing, “Who’s that?” Charles greets all the previous arrivals and then piles a plate with food, ravenous after the run. There is a Cuban band playing; Raven must have taken control of the music. 

Charles sits with his mother. She is reticent, as is usual, but does say, “I like that man, Charles.”

“He asked me to marry him, Mum.”

“Charles, that’s fantastic news. At the house? In spring break or the beginning of your summer vacation? It’ll make a difference to how much marquee space I put up and maybe impact the theme. You and I should choose that soon. Erik is a good planner but he doesn’t have a lot of style for a gay man.”

“But he has very good taste,” says Charles, smoothing his hands over his chest.

And Sharon laughs. Charles can’t really believe it at first, then joins in. 

“You’ve always been so funny, Charles. I appreciate that about you.”

“Oh my God, really?” says Raven later, when Charles tells her. “That’s like the I love you, I’m proud of you moment, I've read about.”

They are dancing in front of the band under strings of lights in the twilight. Charles is swinging her around. “Sis, I’m getting married.” 

She hollers and he sushes her. “I’m doing a shit job of keeping the secret but I don’t think Erik meant you. But, yeah, shhhh.”

“I love him, I’m so happy. For you too,” whispers Raven.

Azazel approaches and asks to cut in. Raven and Charles look at each other, then back at Azazel. “Which one of us are you cutting out?” Raven asks.

“Charles, of course,” Az says, taking Raven’s hand, then mutters, “Erik would disembowel me.”

Raven says sarcastically, as she is whirled away, “I feel so romanced.”

Charles dances with Jean and with Erik and with anybody who asks. He sneaks behind the abandoned garden store with Sean for some dope, is unsurprised when Janos joins them but horrified when Moira tows along. He raises an eyebrow at Sean, who shrugs and slings an arm around her shoulder. Charles shrugs back, waits until Moira coughs her way through a toke, then accepts a shoddy from Janos. 

Before the small group can merge back into the main crowd unnoticed, Alex ambushes them making Moira scream. 

“So Prof,” Alex wants to know, “Did you say yes?”

“Yes to what?” Moira asks immediately.

“Erik proposed,” Alex reveals.

“Dammit, this won’t be new to anyone when we announce it at this rate,” Charles complains. “Yes, I’m getting married. Try and act surprised later.”

“Tell them about the proposal, Prof.” 

Charles does. Night shelters the party like an umbrella and the lanterns are glowing in their best attempt to keep the blindness of it away. Moira and Janos scavenge at the food tables, Sean and Alex have a handstand contest and Charles follows Erik around for a while.

Raven interrupts the band to lead a toast, insisting Charles and Erik join her on the little platform. “Happy Birthday. I’m so glad you’re back in the same country as me. This year has been the best with you around. There is no one in the whole world like you, Charles,” she squeezes him around the waist. He kisses her hair and she sniffs, “Erik, you’re marrying my best friend.”

“Raven!” groans Erik.

Half the partygoers start exclaiming in fake tones: “What a surprise!” and “Oh my gosh, congratulations.”

Erik raises a suspicious eyebrow and says sternly, “Charles!”

“Whoops,” says Charles, looking vaguely sheepish, but mainly self satisfied. 

Someone yells for a kiss and Charles doesn’t give Erik a chance to think, just leaps on him and digs his tongue in. Erik growls and drags their bodies together. Charles happily disregards his audience and, then, simply forgets they are there. He is startled to hear Raven clear her throat.

“Time for cake!” says Raven, and Charles and Erik emerge foggily from their bubble of mutual focus, Charles standing slightly behind Erik, thinking of unsexy things, and cursing himself for not owning baggy jeans.

Raven cuts and Charles hands out cake, accepting real congratulations and birthday wishes in exchange for each piece. 

“Happy birthday, love,” says Jean, pinching Charles’ cheek, “and you’re a perfect couple.”

“That’s a nice thing you’re doing for the world, Xavier. Lehnsherr is horrible to work with if you’re not around,” Emma declares.

“Good job, Prof. Make sure we get to run somewhere awesome on the wedding day,” is Alex’s contribution.

Cain asks, “Bro, are you sure about Erik? He doesn’t know much about what’s needed in the family, in the business. You don’t even have much in common.”

“I’m sure. Erik doesn’t try and tell me what I need,” Charles says pointedly and Cain scowls. 

When two bus loads are gone and the remaining people are moving dreamily, Charles and Erik lean against each other on a bench seat. Charles says, “You know, once again you have exceeded your brief and my expectations.”

Erik chuckles, “At least you have the luxury of forming expectations of me, I wouldn’t dare predict what you were going to do next.” 

“Predict this,” challenges Charles and licks the outside curve of Erik’s ear. “Do I get to choose how our sex goes tonight?” 

“Of course, birthday boy, but you do have to wait ‘til we get back to the room,” Erik says, pulling Charles’ hand out of his shirt.

 

There is one more birthday treat in store for Charles on Sunday morning. Charles gets out of the shower to find Erik in a track suit and tying his running shoes. 

“Going for a run, baby?”

“Actually, I thought maybe you could take me for a run...”

“Really?” Charles throws himself onto Erik’s lap.

“Charles! Wet towel!”

“Oh, sorry, you look like you had an accident,” says Charles, removing the towel and sitting back down.

Erik kisses him but says, “We should go if you want to do this.”

When Charles is dressed, they leave the hotel room and meet the other runners. 

“Did you piss yourself, Erik? Or did the Prof just look extra good this morning?” Alex greets him. Erik scowls. 

They drive the van back to the town for sale, where a crew, being ordered around by Sharon and Raven, are dismantling and cleaning the previous night’s debris. 

“Should we help?” Charles asks, but is waved away by his mother. 

Remy is stretching, “I’ll lead.”

“No way,” says Charles, “not for Erik’s first run.” Remy laughs.

“I’ll lead,” offers Sean.

Charles covers some basic landing guidelines with Erik and then, grinning brightly, says, “Ready?”

Erik nods, jaw set. 

Sean takes off, the others trailing; Charles keeps behind Erik to watch and mind him. Sean keeps to the ground mainly, using benches, bins and steps. When Erik jumps over something, keeping up, Charles has the same jolts of pride as he does watching Erik fencing. His man is so capable, if slightly goofy, it’s endearing and a little inflaming. 

Sean enters the town hall again, leading them over seating, off the stage and then climbs a column to the balcony. 

“Really?” says Erik, as Remy follows Sean, seeming to magically rise to the balcony.

“Yeah, baby, they’re showing off, but I’ll go slow, watch where I put my hands and feet,” Charles reassures him before climbing the column at half speed. He leans over the railing, “You’ll need some momentum though, so not too slow.” 

Erik shakes his head in disbelief, then takes a run at the column. He slips down. 

“You gotta get your hand on the balcony floor on the first upsurge, Cher.” Remy, Sean and Charles are leaning over the railing.

“If you don’t grab the balustrade before gravity gets you, your weight will win against how much grip you can get on this pole,” adds Charles.

“You must have had some experience with gripping a pole, Erik.” 

Charles says, “Thank you Alex.” 

Erik just elbows Alex and says, “Nothing this small though,” earning him a chorus of appreciative chuckles.

Erik tries again and makes it, giving one of his large grins. 

“Oh my God, that was hot!” exclaims Charles, clenching his hands into fists. Erik’s grin extends full range.

“Let’s keep going,” says Sean, once Alex and Janos reach the top. He flings his legs over the balustrade, swings back toward the column, then repels off it, changing direction before hitting the floor. Alex follows, repeating the move almost exactly.

Janos does a swallow dive, tucking and flipping to his feet, just in time. “That guy is crazy,” says Remy, who kind of cartwheels over.

“You first,” says Erik.

“Sure?” checks Charles, then somersaults backwards off the balcony.

He looks up in time to see Erik flying down, jumping simply, but Charles can’t keep his hands to himself this time and they start roaming Erik’s long frame. Remy, already halfway out the door, yells, “Take some alone time, boys.”

Charles barely hears him, occupied with catching Erik’s wide smile with his mouth, delving into him until he rumbles in want. Charles says, “Fuck, you are so... fuck.”

“Yeah,” agrees Erik, “you too.” 

Charles realizes this is the first time Erik has seen him run properly, not just leap onto his terrace or climb his drainpipe.

“I love you,” Erik says in his hair.

“I’m not surprised. I’m basically Superman.”

“You’re not. You don’t have a mild mannered alter ego.”

“Do I not?” asks Charles, mapping all the muscles in Erik’s back with curious hands.

“Being asleep does not count as being mild mannered.”

When they leave the hall, and go out on the main street, the others can be heard yelling on the rooftops. Erik says, “I might just watch now, ok?” Charles just kisses him and takes off, ascending the side of a building like a monkey. He catches up and they chase Alex, then Remy, and Charles leads for a half hour.

When Charles drops down to the street, needing water and done for the day, he leans against his handsome surprise of a man. 

“Thank you for my birthday, Erik. It was amazing.”

“You’re welcome. You deserve it.”

Charles takes a deep breath. It is just possible Erik is not misguided. Maybe, he deserves it. Maybe. He smiles.


	8. Epilogue

Five years of marriage and many arguments about genetic material later, there is finally something that has Erik leave the council, leave the city and actually start accessing and managing aspects of the Xavier resources; it’s the face of the baby that looks like Charles. 

“Give in,” Charles would joke, “be absorbed into the Xavier collective.”

Erik resists, acting independently inside his marriage, scared to lose the last of the Lehnsherrs, the last of the Eisenhardts, scared to invalidate what he built by himself before Charles. 

But, when Erik touches a fat little cheek and falls headlong into bright blue eyes, the resistance dies a quiet death in the shadow of Erik’s new directive: protect, nurture and adore the baby.

David is settled, sleeping with his tiny hand by his pursed pink mouth, just as Charles does, so Erik exits the nursery and goes searching for his husband. He is in the study, marking, and looks up, smiling expectantly, when Erik comes in.

“Asleep?” he asks. “Well done, Daddy.”

Erik slumps into an armchair and combs a hand through his hair. He refuses to approach the desk when Charles is working, resolute in the opinion that, if he is not interrupting, Charles will come to him.

“Are you alright? Erik, really? I know this isn’t exactly what you envisioned for yourself.” Charles willingly abandons his pen and navigates the desk, halting next to Erik’s seat.

“It’s not is it? But I’m glad you broke a law, just that one time mind, and jumped onto my terrace and derailed my life.”

“I could have remained law abiding and met you at the council one day anyway. I’m in and out of that office all the time. I only didn’t meet you earlier because I was in England.” He sneaks a hand under Erik’s shirt. “And if not there, I’d have found you somewhere.”

“Charles,” begins Erik, having never developed an endearment for his man.

“Yes baby?” replies Charles, having never been talked out of his.

“You made an exquisite child.”

Responding to the evil look on Charles’ face, Erik says, “Don’t you dare talk about “milking the specimen” and say “It’s alive!” or I’ll sleep in David’s room.” Charles isn’t at all reverent enough about the angel God has given Erik.

Charles concedes, “Well, you will make him into an outstanding adult... provided we limit my corrosive influence. Don’t want to fuck up all your good work.”

“Charles! You can’t swear anymore.”

“Shit, I mean... crap... ergh. Gosh, that’s hard.” Charles is smiling contentedly, “Whose silly idea was this?”

“Yours. You saw your nephew and got clucky.”

“I would never! Besides, you can talk Unca Earwik. I didn’t buy Kurt a pair of Feiyue canvas before he could walk.”

Erik shifts closer to Charles, “David looks so much like you, it’s amazing, how he has your exact features. And no!” he adds, sternly, seeing Charles’ eyes light up, “I don’t want a lecture on specific genes, please, I just want to examine the source.” 

His large hand tilts a pointed chin, a thumb smoothes under amused blue eyes and the other hand grasps the strong biceps Erik loves. Charles moves that hand down to his crotch and says, “Technically, this is the source.”

“Charles,” growls Erik, warningly, and Charles laughs. Erik supposes he does make it tempting for Charles to tease him about the sacred subject of the baby. “Did we thank Gabrielle enough yet?”

“Yes, she’s perfectly happy and even said to ask her first if we ever wanted to carry on the Lehnsherr line.”

“Shall we go to bed, Charles?”

“Erik,” says Charles, “I’ve never really said this, but, I love you.”

“I know. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Do I not? How would you know otherwise?”

“Uh, you spoil me, you married me, you let me get away with being grumpy... you let me get away with all manner of things, actually. You compliment me all the time... You let me win at chess last week...”

“I did not, that was a fair win.”

“You must have thrown that match. You lost your knight in the most ridiculous move ever!”

“I was distracted, you had no shirt on.”

The skirmish continues all the way to their bedroom, where Charles proves, in his absolute favorite way, how much he loves his husband.


End file.
